


Carol of the Bells

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Cunnilingus, Discussion of Gender Fluidity, Dream Sex, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Food Sex, Genderswap, Grinch References, Hand Feeding, Hot Tub, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Play, Inspired by Christmas Songs, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, Male!Anthea, Male!Harry, Male!Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Male!Mrs. Turner, Masturbation, Non-con voyeurism and touching, Nursing Kink, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Office Sex, Pet Play, Rope Bondage, Scrabble, Shibari, Sickfic, Strap-Ons, Stripping, The Grinch - Freeform, Wax Play, christmas pudding, fem!Moriarty, fem!seb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of ficlets inspired by Christmas songs. All genderswapped. Ratings & pairings vary. Most chapters stand alone.<br/>1. You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch<br/>Moriarty tries to stop Sherlock's Christmas. Rtg: G.<br/>2. All I Want for Christmas<br/>Moran infiltrates an office Christmas party. Rtg: M. Rope bondage. D/s. Pet play.<br/>3. Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!<br/>Sherlock's Christmas arrives early. Rtg E. Ice play. Kink exploration.<br/>4. Santa Baby.<br/>Mycroft & Lestrade are stuck in their offices. Rtg E. Office sex. Stripping.<br/>5. Silent Night<br/>John quiets Sherlock's cough. Rtg T. Sickfic. H/c. Nursing kink.<br/>6. Blue Christmas<br/>Mycroft gets an unexpected visitor on Christmas Eve. Rtg M. Mycroft/John. Dream sex.<br/>7 & 8. We Three Kings<br/>John's inspired by Advent candles. Rtg E. Wax play. Object penetration. Bondage.<br/>9. Figgy Pudding (a 221B)<br/>The landlords offer a Christmas toast. Rtg G.  Mr. Hudson & Mr. Turner.<br/>10. The Land of Sweets from the Nutcracker Suite<br/>Moriarty distracts herself. Rtg E. Non-con voyeurism & touching. Masturbation.<br/>11. The Christmas Song<br/>All's well that ends well in our Christmas AU. Rtg: E.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty tries to stop Sherlock's Christmas from coming. Rating: G. Crack. Fem!Johnlock & Fem!Mormor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Familiarity with the Dr. Seuss story "[How the Grinch Stole Christmas](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_the_Grinch_Stole_Christmas!)" and the title song to the animated version are essential to understanding this story.

“’You can’t stop Christmas from coming!’”

“’You can’t stop Christmas from coming’? That’s what she said?”

“Yes.”

Seb sipped her tea. She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on her suitcase, which was in the same spot where she’d dropped it thirty minutes earlier. A quick shag and a quicker shower and now she was wrapped in flannel dressing gown, listening. The usual post-assignment debrief had been cut short due to agitation. Not hers, of course.

In times like these, the Socratic Method worked best.

“What were you doing immediately prior to that?”

“I was removing a menace.” Seb waited. “They were outside,” Moriarty gestured excitedly to the window, “singing. They would not stop. I was trying to paint.” Moriarty nodded toward the half-decorated canvas on an easel in the corner of the room. “I couldn’t concentrate with that incessant rattle.”

“Mmm. Christmas songs?”

“Yes!”

“So you...”

“First, I removed their musical accompaniment, thinking that would derail them.”

Seb didn’t ask the precise definition of ‘remove.’

“But they kept singing!”

“And so you...?”

“...inserted a conspicuously inconspicuous package in the middle of the throng and made an anonymous telephone call to Scotland Yard.”

Seb barked a laugh. “You called in a fake bomb threat to stop Christmas carollers?”

Moriarty huffed.

“Oh Christ,” said Seb. She looked futilely around the flat.

“I used the leftover Semtex.”

“You are not a demolitions expert! You could’ve blown yourself and the whole street up in the process!”

“How difficult can it be?! Anyway, I was watching the resulting mayhem from a safe distance when this tree walks by and says...”

“A walking tree?”

“This enormous tree passed me,” Moriarty held her hand horizontal, “and from the other side, I heard her say, ‘You can’t stop Christmas from coming.’”

“Her? Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“I saw the hem of that _coat_.” Moriarty spat the last word.

“Ah,” said Seb, taking a sip of tea. “It _is_ a fabulous coat.”

“I have fabulous coats!” Moriarty waved angrily toward the bedroom.

Seb shrugged. “Speaking of which, why are there five new rounds in the armoire? I thought we had an understanding about indoor target practice.”

Moriarty crumpled.

“Sebbie...I’ve been so...bored. It’s been hatefully quiet. Without you.”

Seb was not sure of the ratio of truth to flattery to that. After some thought, she chuckled. “It is kind of funny, what she said.”

Moriarty growled.

Seb studied her lover’s face and then said slowly, “You know where it’s from, right?”

Moriarty’s expression was blank. Seb paused to savour the moment, so rare in their partnership, in which she knew something that the green-eyed woman didn’t. Then she said gallantly,

“Allow me to illuminate you.”

* * *

“This is brilliant!” Moriarty stared at the television. “Not the ending, of course, that’s drivel, but...” Moriarty steepled her fingers at her lips. “Yes, yes, yes. Inspiration comes in all forms and fashions, Sebbie. Every artist knows this. This,” she pointed to the green animated figure on the screen, “is our next assignment.”

Seb had a sinking feeling that got worse. “No,” she said.

“Oh, yes. I will stop Sherlock’s Christmas from coming!”

“No. Because if you’re the Grinch that makes me...”

“Don’t worry, my pet. I’ll find you much better fitting antlers than that silly dog.”

* * *

“Perfect,” said John.

“Thank you,” replied Sherlock, bowing with violin in hand toward the kitchen.

“You’re playing as well, my Love, but I was referring to the duck.” John set the heavy pan on top of the stove and closed the oven door. She removed her mitts. “This duck is perfect. Crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, perfectly seasoned. I used Lestrade’s great-grandmother’s recipe. Little potatoes and carrots. Mmm!” John inhaled deeply and smiled. She smiled at the large, brightly decorated Christmas tree with gifts, at the mantle heavy with cards, at the garland and fairy lights and platters of pretty biscuits and her lovely, lovely duck.

All was right with the world. Christmas was coming!

_Beep!_

“No!” cried John. Sherlock laid the violin and bow in her chair and scooped up her mobile, striding down the hall. John hurried after her, protesting, “No, no, no! No case!”

Sherlock closed the bedroom door.

John waited. When Sherlock reappeared John didn’t need to ask, she read it clearly in her partner’s eyes, lit up like their gorgeous, gorgeous tree.

“It’s Christmas Eve, Sherlock!”

“This case, John, it’s an eleven, I promise! The duck will wait.”

John trudged down the hall. She donned her coat as sullenly as possible.

* * *

Twelve hours later, Sherlock and John were climbing the stairs.

“Say it!” insisted Sherlock.

“Okay, it’s a Christmas miracle! You were right...”

“I’m always right...that’s no miracle!”

“It _was_ an eleven. You were _fantastic_. Truly. Brilliant.”

“You were brave, John. Very brave,” said Sherlock softly. They stopped their ascent to kiss.

“Now let’s have Christmas...” said John, but when she reached the top of the stairs, her face fell in horror.

“Sherlock!”

Gone.

Tree, gone. Gifts, gone. Cards and holly and mistletoe and fairy lights—all gone.

John instinctively pushed ahead of Sherlock and put her hand on the Browning tucked in her jeans. Despite Sherlock’s assurances, she did not relax until she had verified that the flat was empty. Then she startled and raced to the kitchen.

She looked in the oven and in the refrigerator. Twice. Staring each time, disbelievingly.

“Someone stole our duck! And the biscuits! And...everything!”

“Yes,” said Sherlock slowly, scanning the sitting room.

A thought struck John. She opened the cupboard door and then slammed it closed. “Bloody motherfucking arseholes! They nicked my tea! My limited edition Christmas tea! I queued for two hours in the cold for that bloody tea! They sold out in minutes! And I never even got to try it! I was saving it for...for...” John sighed and slumped against the counter. She looked back at the sitting room. “They left your laptop. My laptop.”

“Not a traditional robbery,” agreed Sherlock, walking around the room.

“They took our Christmas...and left...,” said John. “Some kind of green slime. What do you call that?”

Sherlock removed her glove and ran a finger through a green smudge on the kitchen table. She rubbed her fingers together and smelled the substance. “Dedication to one’s craft,” she mumbled.

“I’m being silly,” said John finally. “It’s just...things. Just...silly things. You’re here. I’m here. We’re safe. We’re together. That’s all that really matters.” John walked into Sherlock’s embrace. Sherlock kissed the top of her head.

John’s eyes glanced at the bare corner where the Christmas tree had stood. She winced.

“ _Oh!_ ”

“The original 1893 edition of Bertillon's _Identification Anthropométrique_? It’s safe.”

John glared at Sherlock, “How did you...? Never mind. Safe where?”

“In the very festively-appointed suite that I booked us for the next three days. With a restaurant that serves the finest duck in country.”

“You knew this would happen?!”

Sherlock sighed. “There was a probability...the case...was confirmation...” Her words were interrupted by a ring of the doorbell. John’s hand shot to the Browning, and they moved down the stairs as a single unit.

“Anthea?”

He grinned. “Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson, the _junior_ Ms. Holmes.” He handed Sherlock a large brown envelope. Sherlock replied curtly, “Good-bye” and shut the door on him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened the envelope and removed a bundle of photographs. The first one had a note attached with a handwritten address. Sherlock stuck the note in her coat pocket.

John stood on the bottom step and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“For once, I allowed Mycroft to put cameras in the flat.”

John’s jaw dropped. “It’s Moriarty!” she cried. “And she’s green...and...in some sort of suit!” Sherlock flipped through the photographs to John’s commentary. “And stealing our tree...and our fairy lights...and our duck! Oh my God! She’s the Grinch! She’s the fucking Grinch! And she stole our Christmas! With...oh! Who’s that?” John pointed to tall figure in a fluffy white beard with a matching red Santa Claus suit.

“She has a partner,” said Sherlock.

“Max! She made the guy dress up as Max! Bloody hell!”

“It’s a woman, John.”

“Really? It’s difficult to tell. Can’t really see her face. She’s tall. I hope she paid her a mint to trot around in those silly antlers.”

“Maybe she did it for love.”

John huffed. “Who would fall in love with a woman like that?”

Sherlock turned her head to give John a knowing look.

John sighed. “Touché.” She pointed to the photographs. “Those are priceless. You think she engineered the case to get us out of the flat?”

“Assuredly.”

John rested her chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. “When you think about it, it sort of evens out. They gave us an interesting case for Christmas, and we gave them...well...a feast with all the trimmings.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Shall I pack a bag?” asked John.

“Feel free to pack lightly,” said Sherlock with a smirk. “But we do have one stop to make.” She held up the note with the address.

John frowned. “Sherlock...”

* * *

“Sherlock, this is not a good idea,” whispered John. “This innocently-looking flat has security tighter than the Bank of England.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “By my estimation, I’ll have about 23 seconds before the tertiary alarms will sound.”

“It’s probably an ambush. She’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock shook her head. “Doubtful.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Your duck was perfect. And I drugged it.”

Before John could reply, Sherlock was in the flat.

Twenty-three seconds was more than enough time. It was an odd scene: a transplanted 221B Christmas in a flat that bore a resemblance to the original, but with distinct Eastern aesthetic. An unconscious green figure with a drooping Santa hat slumped at the kitchen table, gnawed leg of duck still clasped in hand.

The purloined tea tin was nestled in the middle of the feast. Sherlock unfurled a handkerchief, lifted the tin by the edges and dropped it into a large plastic bag.

“After dusting for prints—I want to know who you are—“ said Sherlock as she approached the second unconscious figure, face-down in the sofa, “and analyzing for contaminants, this will be returned to its owner.”

Sherlock took a wide black pen from her coat pocket and drew a curly-tipped moustache on Moriarty’s face. Then she strode out of the door, singing in an almost-baritone,

“Given the choice between the two of you, I'd take the seasick crocodile!”


	2. All I Want for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran goes on assignment at a corporate Christmas party. Fem!Mormor. Rating: M. Rope bondage/shibari. Established D/s relationship. Pet play. Additional characters borrowed from BBC Sherlock episode "The Blind Banker."
> 
> For [bootsnblossoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms). Inspired by this (very NSFW!) [image](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/post/102586462268) and the most insidious earworm of a Christmas song ever penned.

Seb watched the numbers go up.

_Give me anything._

_Give me Afghan sun, West African dust, Amazonian heat with air so moist you could spread it on toast._

_Give me the butt of Kalashnikov in the hands of a child, that unimaginative question, ‘How many bones in the human body?’_

_Somali pirates, Burmese soldiers, Mexican traffickers._

_Anything but this._

_An office Christmas party._

I DON’T WANT A LOT FOR CHRISTMAS!

The song assaulted Seb as she stepped off the elevator.

THERE’S JUST ONE THING I NEED!

She eased her way through the crowd.

I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE PRESENTS UNDERNEATH THE CHRISTMAS TREE!

“Beryl! You made it!” Someone squealed, grabbing Seb and dragging her toward a group. “We’re over here.” Seb chatted. She drank sickeningly sweet red rummy punch. She scanned the room.

_Van Coon, Van Coon, Van Coon. Sooner I find him and kill him, sooner I can leave and disinfect myself._

I JUST WANT YOU FOR MY OWN!

“Drinking game!”

Seb pulled away, smiling. “I need the loo!” she mouthed over the blaring tune, pointing to her empty glass.

MORE THAN YOU COULD EVER KNOW!

“Uh...Ms. Walker...”

A large-headed man toddled toward Seb. She quickly lifted another glass of red punch from the tray that passed between them.

_Props were always helpful, especially props that could be broken into weapons after their red, messy contents were poured down someone’s trouser front._

“Turner,” corrected Seb, taking a sip and willing the concoction to stay in her stomach.

“I want to...thank you so much...for...the rebooting...the other day...”

The man’s slurred words were aimed at Seb’s chest. Seb drank more.

MAKE MY WISH COME TRUE!

“No problem, Mr. Wilkes. Happy Christmas!”

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU!

Seb spotted Van Coon in the far corner of the room.

_Finally!_

He was alone.

_Perfect!_

Seb downed the rest of her drink.

“Perhaps we could...”

Wilkes leaned forward.

I DON’T WANT A LOT FOR CHRISTMAS! THERE IS JUST ONE THING I NEED!

Seb stepped backwards. She held up her empty glass and said with manufactured sheepishness, “I really need the loo! Hold that thought!”

Seb navigated the space between her and Van Coon, carefully avoiding the multitude of group selfies being shot by the revellers.

I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE PRESENTS UNDERNEATH THE CHRISTMAS TREE!

She heard it twice as she moved closer and closer to her target. “Who’s that?” “Oh, that’s the new IT girl.” With her dark hair, dark pin-striped suit, and starched white shirt, Seb looked like half the women in the room.

That was the point.

I DON’T NEED TO HANG MY STOCKINGS THERE UPON THE FIREPLACE!

It was really too easy. Too easy to bump Van Coon’s glass. Too easy to apologize profusely and offer him a second drink. Too easy to start a flirty conversation. Too easy to feign disappointment and embarrassment when he turned purple, made hurried excuses, and stumbled toward the gents.

When Mariah Carey was singing her final request for you to make her wish come true, Seb was watching the numbers on the service elevator go down and breathing a sigh of relief that the job was done and that Beryl from IT could evaporate.

As soon as Seb got this bloody £700 suit off.

* * *

The leather was around Seb’s neck before the door clicked closed.

She sighed.

_No long debrief, please._

“Van Coon?”

“Dead.”

_Thank you._

Seb felt the tug at her throat as a leash was hooked onto her collar.

“Come.”

As she was led to the bedroom, Seb unbuttoned her suit jacket and blouse and pulled the fabric aside. She ran her hands over her chest, feeling the contrasts of jute rope, bare skin, metal ring, fine cloth.

“It was good, this,” she said, rubbing the rope harness that wound around her neck and crisscrossed her breasts and waist. “It made the job easier. I felt controlled, contained...” She flicked the metal ring in her left nipple.

“Leashed? Naturally. Stop that. Sit.”

Seb sat on her heels, hands by her sides. She sighed again and looked up into green eyes. “I’ve got to get this song out of my head,” she confessed.

Moriarty looped the leash over the arm of the chair.

“Safeword?”

“Christmas punch.”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Then she leaned down, placing her hands on her own thighs. Seb pushed up and off her heels. Their lips touched.

Moriarty pulled back and growled with disgust.

“Christmas. Punch.”

Seb nodded.

“I’ve got to get that taste out of your mouth! Stay!”

“I’m not a dog!” hissed Seb at Moriarty’s retreating form.

Moriarty turned, eyes flashing a murderous green, then she cooled. She advanced on Seb. “Please stay,” she cooed with artificial sweetness.

Seb pretended to consider the order. “Okay,” she agreed.

Moriarty returned with a saucer of milky tea.

Seb lapped eagerly while Moriarty moved about the bedroom.

When the saucer was empty, Seb looked up.

Moriarty had exchanged her own suit for a short black kimono and boots. _The Boots_ , in Seb's mind. The thick-heeled, thigh-high leather boots that turned Seb’s mouth dry and fuelled her fantasies.

Moriarty held a riding crop in one hand and the leash in the other.

“Up, Tiger.”

With a quick jerk at her throat, Seb was on the bed on all fours. Moriarty let the leash drop. She paced in front of the bed.

“Normally, as an artist, I wouldn’t mix quite so many media.” She ran the keeper over Seb’s rope harness and gave the leash a hard yank. “But you’ve had a stressful evening.”

“And I need to get this song out of my head,” Seb repeated. Moriarty nodded. Seb smirked and added lasciviously, “And I need to get this taste out of my mouth.”

Moriarty stopped mid-stride; she turned to face Seb. The kimono fell open.

Seb eyed the dark pubic hair on display. She drew her tongue across her upper lip.

“You are—by far—the mouthiest sub I’ve ever had the misfortune to dominate!”

There was no mistaking the amusement, affection, and yes, the love, in the often-voiced complaint.

“Yes, Master.” Seb bent her head, smiling.

“Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this one, you might like my other Fem!Mormor rope bondage fic [Green](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2344940/chapters/5170667).


	3. Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's Christmas arrives early in the form of an experiment. Rating E. Ice play. Kink exploration.

“It’s Christmas!” exclaimed Sherlock.

She jumped straight in the air and spun around in the middle of the empty flat.

It wasn’t Christmas, of course. Christmas was eight days away, but as far as Sherlock Holmes was considered it was Christmas and every other holiday rolled into one.

John Watson had agreed to participate in an experiment.

Nay.

John Watson had agreed to participate in a _sexual_ experiment.

It was unexpected, unprecedented, and, to use a very John-Watson phrase, un- _fucking_ -believable.

It had to be good. Sherlock had to make it good. Better than good. Because if it were better than good, the very opposite of Not Good, then maybe, just maybe...

...there would be _more_.

“More.”

Sherlock let the word drop like a small rubber ball and bounce around her Mind Palace. Then she caught it and hid in the farthest reaches of her psyche, even beyond her memories of the invincibility of cocaine and the euphoria of morphine.

She would not think about _more_. She would work on making it _better than good_.

* * *

It had all started with a chase, a chase through a park, which, after five days of steady snow, was blanketed white. And it had all boiled down to approximately fifteen centimetres, the difference in stature between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. That difference meant that Sherlock easily scaled the gate and John Watson, after two frustrated attempts, could not and had to find an alternate route. Sherlock sped ahead, overtook the man, and threw him down. She zip-tied his hands and legs and barked.

“John!?”

No answer. Sherlock pinned the man face-down on the cold path. Her panting made white puffs in frigid air. She heard someone coming.

“John!”

Not John.

Sally Donovan sneered, “Your terrier took a tumble. Better go fetch her and leave police work to the real police.” Sherlock stood up. She resisted the urge to punch him in the stomach, but she did not resist a parting shot.

“Chlamydia is a bitch, no?”

“So are you. Leave!”

Sherlock calculated John’s most probable detour, which would have led her...

“Oh no,” said Sherlock, running faster. But by the time she found her, there was only a John Watson-shaped indentation in the snow bank. Lestrade and John were giggling. Lestrade beat snow off John’s back, and John brushed it off her chest. A snowman, festooned with carrot nose and bedraggled scarf and hat, was perched at the edge of the cleared path.

“Christ, that tingles,” John laughed and patted the snowman on the head. “ _If you want to freeze my tits, Mister, you’re going to have to buy me a drink first_.”

Lestrade howled.

They looked at Sherlock.

“I’m fine,” said John.

“I know you’re fine,” said Sherlock testily. “You’re also short.” She quickly filed John’s comment under ‘For Later Analysis.’

“Alright. I assume you got our man,” said Lestrade. Sherlock nodded and gestured toward where she’d left Donovan. “Great, and thank you. Watch where you’re going next time, Watson.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

 

Sherlock waited one hundred and eight seconds and then turned the page of the journal. She was not reading. She was stretched out on the sofa, thinking; John was watching crap telly.

Sherlock rolled John’s words over and over in her mind. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But how to proceed? She should forget it. Delete it. If there was one bold line that was not crossed in 221B, it was not the sanctity of John’s bedroom or her tea tin or even her gun; it was that _John Watson was not to be experimented on in any shape or fashion_. Not Good. Worse than Not Good. Anything that even remotely resembled an experiment featuring her as test subject had provoked the most negative of reactions and subsequent silences, which unlike Sherlock’s own silences, served to suck the very marrow from Sherlock’s bones. Served to suck the very light and sound out of 221B. Served to remind Sherlock painfully of contrast between life before John and life with John..

Sherlock would not risk it. But...perhaps, perhaps, _John would like it_. She rested the journal face-down on her chest and closed her eyes in solemn contemplation.

She would proceed with the utmost care and abandon all efforts at the first sign of catastrophe.

* * *

“Hullo, love. How was your day?” Back to Sherlock, John was leaning over the oven door.

“Boring,” replied Sherlock as she danced her fingertips down the nape of John’s neck.

“FUCK!”

A baking sheet clattered to the floor; brown bits flew around the kitchen.

John turned sharply. “Your hands are like ice, Sherlock! Jesus Christ! What happened to your gloves?!”

“Lost them,” said Sherlock. Her hands were like ice, more specifically, like snow, the snow that she had stuck them in on the way home.

John levelled a hard stare at her. “Try again. You destroyed them? In some _experiment_?”

That word. A harbinger of things to come? John's tone, however, quickly quashed any hopeful musing on Sherlock's part.

“There was a lot of blood, John. Not mine, of course.” Tiny lie. Not a big lie.

“Well, you owe Sister Mary Francis eight gingerbread men for the bake sale.” John gestured to the broken limbs on the floor.

“I’ll write a check,” said Sherlock. She crouched with hands in front of her in a classic child’s “I’m Going to Get You” pose.

John’s eyes widened and she giggled, stepping back. “You don’t know how to write a check. You deleted it with the solar system. Oh, no you don’t, Miss Icicle Hands. You keep your cold paws off me!”

“But how am I going to warm them, John?”

Sherlock lunged at her and then chased her around the kitchen table twice.

John squealed, “What has gotten into you?!” and headed toward the sitting room.

“Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit!” retorted Sherlock.

Or the improbable prospect of Christmas arriving early.

Sherlock pounced and pushed John onto the sofa. Sherlock tickled her, first atop John’s shirt and then—to louder protests—under it. Just as Sherlock had predicted: it was one of _those_ Thursdays, no bra, perfect. John squirmed and twisted. She laughed and shrieked.

Sherlock stopped and looked into John’s eyes, shining with tears.

“Christ, I love you, you gorgeous beast.”

Sherlock almost abandoned her plan right then and there, so light and joyous and wonderful was the moment. But, finally, as with many circumstances, her curiosity won out.

She drew a cold thumb across John’s bottom lip. John smiled. Sherlock moved to John’s jawline. Emboldened by a slight shiver, Sherlock tapped the fingers of her other hand, the one under John’s shirt, in straight line down the middle of her bare torso. A second tremor, stronger than the first, ran through John. Her smile didn’t falter. _And she didn’t pull away_. Then Sherlock dragged the knuckle of her index finger over John’s nipple. John bucked and then settled back against the sofa.

“Do you like the feeling of cold on your skin?” Sherlock’s voice was the softest register her vocal chords could manufacture—she had practiced.

John’s smile faded. She looked at the space above Sherlock’s left shoulder.

Thinking. Thinking is good.

Finally, John’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s.

“I don’t know.”

Now was the moment. Where things could go one way or the other.

“Would you like to find out?” asked Sherlock quietly. “Together.” John's eyes searched Sherlock’s face as Sherlock knew they would. Sherlock purposefully, painfully let every guard she had down, let every genuine emotion she had shine forth in her expression.

And there is was. Sherlock knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, out loud. There it was, three letters, one syllable, her gift, wrapped in shiny paper, tied with a bow, To: Sherlock, From: John, under the tree on Christmas morning.

“Yes.”

* * *

Better than good, better than good, better than good. It was the chant of a Greek chorus in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock was once again with the journal on the sofa. Not pretending to read because John was not home.

Yet.

At the sound of steps on the stairs, the journal flew into Sherlock’s hands.

“Hullo, love. How was your day?”

“Busy.”

“I can see that.” John fingered the black drape in the corner. “For the _experiment_?”

Still uncomfortable. Note: find a different word.

“Yes.”

“May I?” John plucked at the plastic.

“Of course.”

John drew the cover away and laughed.

Laughter is good, better than horror.

“Are you planning to send me into...,” John studied one machine than the other, “...cardiac arrest or...Jesus Christ...seizure?”

Sherlock huffed. “I need data, John, to supplement my own observations and your self-reported ones.”

John pursed her lips and nodded. “Still on for tonight, yeah? Best to get these back to the poor sod you took them from as soon as possible. He’s probably missing them.” John pointed to ST. BARTS INTENSIVE CARE UNIT stencilled in black letters on the side of each machine.

“Unlikely. But yes, if you’re still amenable, tonight.”

Polite, polite, Sherlock. She likes polite. Leave, permission, consent. Give her an out.

“Yup.”

Sherlock relaxed. It’s going to happen, it’s actually going to happen, un- _fucking_ -believable.

John headed toward the kitchen but then turned back. “No gowns, no gloves, no beeping.”

Sherlock huffed again and said haughtily, “This is science, John, not medicine.”

John chuckled and licked her lips. Sherlock melted. Just a little.

“Well, your rat for the evening is going to eat dinner and take a shower.”

Sherlock inwardly winced at ‘rat.’

I could buy a thousand rats, ten thousand rats, John. I could not buy, make, or conjure you, even if I had all the requisite parts. That’s the alchemy of it. This has got to be good. Better than good.

Sherlock turned off her mobile.

* * *

“Alright,” said John. “Here we go.” She rubbed to top of her thighs. She was seated in the middle of the sofa, which had been covered with the softest impermeable sheeting that Sherlock could find. She wore a flannel dressing gown. Long wires were attached to her head and chest. The machines hummed, but, as requested, did not beep. Sherlock was seated in front of John in a folding chair, small table at one side, large chest of ice and smaller plastic bin on the other. A pile of towels and blankets and Sherlock’s tablet lay on the table.

“Audio?” asked Sherlock.

“You want to record it! Of course you do. Umm. Okay. No video. Ever. Of anything.”

“Noted. I want you to rate the sensation on a scale of -10 to 10. Zero meaning no arousal and...”

“Yeah, I got it. Physical arousal?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all you’re interested in?”

Trick question, but an easy one to navigate. “No, but emotion, sentiment is even more subjective, more difficult to quantify.”

John nodded. “Fair enough. ‘No’ means ‘no’ and ‘stop’ means ‘stop’?”

“Naturally. This is an investigation—“ Better word, no, John? Sounds more like case, and you _like_ cases. “—not a scene.”

“Alright, want me to sign consent?” Sherlock whipped a sheet from her notebook and offered John a pen.

See, John, professional. Black and white. Like the archaic newspapers you prefer.

“Christ, umm. I’ll take a gentlewoman’s agreement.” She stretched out her hand.

Even more archaic. Old fashioned. Traditional. _John_.

Sherlock shook her hand.

“Let’s begin.”

* * *

“Forehead,” said Sherlock. She gripped a half-circle shaped piece of ice between her fingers with a cloth and swiped the edge against John’s forehead.

John closed her eyes. “-1.” Sherlock made a notation on her tablet.

“Nose.”

“0.”

“Cheeks...left...right.” Sherlock drew lines with the ice over John’s sinus cavities to her jawline.

“-1.” Sherlock continued to jot her observations on the tablet.

“Ears...left...right.”

John doesn’t like her ears to be touched.

“-3, -3. Sherlock, you know I don’t like people messing with my ears.”

“Jaw...left...right. Chin.”

“1’s all around.”

“Top lip.”

“2.”

“Bottom lip.”

“2.”

John leaned back against the sofa. Her shoulders dropped.

See? Not so bad, John. Maybe, even, good.

Sherlock moved onto John’s upper extremities: hands, wrists, arms, elbows, and shoulders. Under John’s armpits rated a ticklish ‘4.’

“Feet.”

Toes, soles, ankles. The back of John’s knees earned a ‘3,’ but her inner and outer thighs only a ‘1.’ But with each exchange, John grew more and more relaxed, which Sherlock counted as progress.

“Neck-front, centre, left, right.”

“2, 3, 2.”

“Neck-back.”

“2.”

“Turn around.” John turned around and untied the dressing gown. She let it fall to her waist. “Back.” John shivered as Sherlock drew vertical lines on her skin.

“3.”

Sherlock made a note.

Would’ve thought at least the lower back would’ve rated higher.

“Chest,” said Sherlock.

Surely this will rate higher.

John turned and opened the top half of the dressing gown. Sherlock swiped a cube down the centre of her chest. It earned her a tremor.

“3.”

Hmmm.

Then she looked directly at John. John nodded. Sherlock moved the ice cube carefully around one nipple and then the other, observing the change in colour and shape in the aerole.

“4...5.”

Sherlock hummed. Better. She ran the ice down John’s stomach.

“Christ, that tickles, umm, 4.”

John untied the sash and pulled the sides of the dressing gown apart. She moved lengthwise on the couch and opened her legs. Sherlock reached for her, but John pushed her hand away.

“I’ll do it.” She spread herself. The instant the ice touched the edge of her mons, John jumped.

“S’okay, s’okay. Just go slow, eh?” Sherlock moved the ice up one side and down the other.

“Uhhh...3?”

Huh. Well, maybe. Labia majora. ”4.” Labia minora. ”3.” Sherlock inserted the ice inside John.

“Uh...” Long pause. “0”

“0?”

“Well, maybe -1 or -2. It kind of...burns.” Sherlock removed the ice quickly.

I just burned John’s cunt with ice. For science, of course. For science. With consent. But...

“Umm,” said Sherlock.

“Go ahead, love. Might as well be...thorough.” John lifted the dressing gown and turned over. Sherlock trailed a cube in a pattern across the flesh of John’s buttocks.

“4...4.”

When the ice reached John’s rim and circled it, Sherlock was not surprised.

“-2. Do _not_ stick that thing in me, Sherlock.” Sherlock dropped the ice cube. It slid to the floor.

John pulled the dressing gown around her as she sat up.

“Well, that was the weirdest gyno exam I’ve ever had. Are we done?”

Sherlock hesitated. She swallowed and reached into the ice chest.

“If...if...you feel like trying...,” she said weakly. She handed John a blue bundle.

John examined it. It made a soft crunching sound as she turned it over. “It’s an...ice...pillow?”

“Crushed ice. Smooth but firm. I thought...it...might replicate your most customary method of...”

John’s stare killed the rest of the statement. Her tone made something inside Sherlock sink.

“You want me to _fuck myself_ on an ice pillow?”

“I...I...wanted to see the effect of...”

“Alright, alright, love. We’ll give it a go.” John placed the pillow on the sofa and situated her lower half over it. She rocked back and forth. She moved her knees up and down. She inched to the edge of the sofa and then back to centre. In all honesty, she anticipated every cue and suggestion—almost in the exact order—as they occurred to Sherlock, but finally stopped. She sat up and handed Sherlock the pillow.

“Sorry, love. It’s just...cold.”

Sherlock returned the pillow to the chest and tapped on her tablet. She took a deep, audible, breath.

It was good. It was good. John hadn’t broken a ‘5’ or achieved orgasm, but, nevertheless, she had participated and seemed to... _enjoy_ perhaps too strong a word...at least tolerate it. And Sherlock had data. And data were always good. And more data about John’s sexuality were even _better than good_. For Sherlock, of course.

But for John...

Success. It had been a success, Sherlock reassured herself. And there was a surprise that, well, might make John smile instead of stare at her the way that she was doing right now. Almost as if she were a Freak, but John had never looked at her _that_ way, her look had more concern, more tenderness, more _understanding_ than Sherlock had ever known.

Make her smile. Now.

Sherlock reached to turn off the recording.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock startled.

“Why are you doing this? This experiment?” asked John.

“Investigation. To study the effect of cold on human arousal.” Sherlock’s tone was defensive, almost...God save the Queen... _cold_.

“Human arousal? Female arousal? _British_ female arousal.”

Sherlock huffed. “ _Your_ human arousal. Obviously. Data. Data about John.” There was an entire Versailles-sized section of Sherlock’s Mind Palace devoted to that particular subject.

“To what end?” asked John.

“You sound like Mycroft. Why does there always have to be an application for knowledge?”

“Please don’t bring your sister into this. For curiosity’s sake alone? Not because, say, you want to enhance my arousal, maximize my pleasure?”

Was she mad? “I tried to maximize your pleasure. I got a ‘5’!” cried Sherlock. She sighed loudly.

John’s jaw set. Not the angry setting, but the serious one. She refastened the dressing gown around her tighter and crossed her arms. Very serious.

“Sherlock, at this point in my life, what’s the most critical variable to my arousal?”

Sherlock knew this one.

“Indirect clitoral stimulation. In a steady, modified ¾ _allegretto vivace_ tempo.”

John dropped her head and closed her eyes.

Wrong answer! Sherlock felt the ominous tingle of Not Good. Stupid! It was the musical term! John’s proficiency in woodwinds was, Sherlock suspected, exaggerated. “That is to say...” she began again.

John looked up. “The most critical variable to my arousal is you, you idiot.”

Oh.

“Oh,” said Sherlock.

“And I know this is supposed to be an experiment and not a scene, but...” John crawled into Sherlock’s lap. “If there were more _you_ in this experiment, the numbers might go up and maybe, just maybe, _that’s the point_.”

“I might not be able to remain objective.”

“Halle- _fucking_ -lujah. Isn’t that what the recording’s for?” asked John, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

Sherlock looked at the tablet and then back at John. “Worth a try. It might be...good.”

“It might be better than good,” said John huskily.

Sherlock shivered. 

* * *

Sherlock released John’s bottom lip from between her teeth.

“See that, that was a 5.”

“Observer bias...” began Sherlock.

“...is going to hopelessly skew your results,” said John, grinning. “Want to keep going?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock drew two lines down either side of John’s neck with an ice cube and followed them with trails of open-mouthed kisses.

“5.”

Sherlock turned John. She swiped the back of John’s neck and then licked the stripe.

“Right there, right there.” John’s hand flew back to Sherlock’s head. “Stay right there, love. 6, no maybe a 7. Hey, where are you going?” Sherlock slipped from John’s grasp. She bent down and pulled the ice chest closer to the sofa. She popped a piece of ice in her mouth.

CRACK!

She bit it and spit half in the bin. Then she pressed her lips and the ice to _that_ spot on John’s neck. John jolted off the sofa and then settled back, clawing at Sherlock’s scalp.

“Yeah, yeah, love, that’s a 7. At least. Ooo, yes, yes, like that, too.” With her tongue, Sherlock pushed the ice in tiny circles against John’s neck. “You know, Sherlock, I’m thinking it’s not so much the cold, per se...”

Sherlock turned John around and pushed her back against the sofa. She lifted John’s leg and pressed an ice cube to the back of her knee and then covered the spot with her mouth.

“...but the contrast,” finished Sherlock. “Obvious.” With ice between her lips, she kissed the back of the other knee.

John panted. “6, 6. Yeah, Christ, you’re so _warm_.” Sherlock stopped.

Warm. Sherlock Holmes, warm? Sherlock Holmes, of the icy tongue, the frosty stare, the frigid cunt, the frozen heart? No, no, no...

“So warm, my Beloved.” John reached for her, and Sherlock pulled her distractedly into her arms. John peppered her face with kisses and curled her fingers in Sherlock’s hair, but Sherlock’s mind was snagged on the one word.

Warm, warm, warm.

John’s teeth bit into the skin on Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock snapped out of her reverie. She reached for an ice cube, pushed John’s dressing gown aside, and circled the outside edge of John’s breast.

“If I am warm,” she said thickly, “it is because proximity to you thaws me.”

John gasped when the ice touched her nipple. Then Sherlock covered it with her mouth. John bucked against Sherlock’s lips.

“9! 9, Sherlock! More, please!” Sherlock’s assault was as exhaustive as it was ruthless. The ice and her mouth covered every feature of John’s breasts: from nipple to curves to cleavage. Slow strokes won her deep groans, and fast ones got her high-pitched shrieks; Sherlock revelled in both. John thrashed and wriggled. In the end, Sherlock had her pinned tightly to the sofa, like a butterfly in a case.

“Enough,” John coughed, “enough, love.” Sherlock stared at the solitary tear that had escaped from the corner of John’s eye and threatened to roll down her cheek. She licked it up and noted the tiny drop of John’s warmth seem to spread from the tip of her tongue to the rest of her body.

John sat up quickly and pushed Sherlock aside. She grabbed the ice pillow from the chest, dragged it across a towel, and tossed it on the sofa. Panting hard, she ripped—and ripped was the appropriate word because Sherlock heard two shirt buttons hit the floor—Sherlock’s shirt open from collar to tail. Belt and trouser zip were soon undone as well.

“Help me, Sherlock. It just might work if you help me.”

John fell over the pillow. She jerked up and then positioned it underneath her pelvis. Sherlock pulled the dressing gown away and settled herself along John’s bare back.

“It’s cold, Sherlock. Warm me up.” Sherlock licked the back of John’s neck. John rocked her hips. “Yeah, yeah.” Sherlock bent to lick the scar. John pressed her hips harder into the pillow and pushed up with her arms. Sherlock rose up with her and steadied herself with one hand against the back of the sofa.

“Sherlock...?”

Sherlock recognized the unspoken plea. She scooped up two ice cubes with one hand and blew hot breath against John’s neck. “Fuck yourself, John. Fuck yourself on this ice. Let me see those pretty frozen tits. I want to see them. Fuck yourself and I’ll warm you up after.” Sherlock transferred one cube to her far hand and snaked her arms around John’s bucking form.

Sherlock pressed the ice against John’s nipples.

“AH-ARGH! Oh, oh, oh, oh! SHERLOCK!”

Later, Sherlock would listen to the recording, of course, and commit its entirety to her memory. But of the whole encounter, that noise, that noise, that John made when she came, it was, well, it was...it became, rather...

...the very definition of _better than good_.

“WARM ME UP!” cried John, pushing the pillow to the floor as she turned underneath Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth was on John’s nipple, covering as much flesh as possible. Her tongue moved against the tissue, bathing it in wet heat.

“YES! CHRIST, 11! 11!” Sherlock moved to the other breast. Finally, John panted, “Warm my cunt, Sherlock!”

Then Sherlock was on her back and John’s thighs were tented around Sherlock’s head and she was lapping at the cool flesh to the sound of John’s crescendoing moans. She rubbed John’s buttocks and legs and took a mental photograph. Of the muscles and flesh and bones of John's torso, underside of her breasts, her arms behind her head, her back arched, her face painted with wanton pleasure. So transfixed by the sight was Sherlock that she almost missed the tell-tale tension in John’s body and side-to-side wriggle of her hips.

Sherlock realized instantly that she might actually...

...taste John as she came.

It _is_ Christmas.

Sherlock licked as John whimpered. Then John pitched forward. Sherlock eased from underneath her and lay beside her on the sofa.

“This wasn’t just for Science, John.”

“I know, I know, it was for Love, too.”

* * *

“Ready for the finale?” asked Sherlock, buttoning what of her clothes could still _be_ buttoned.

“What kind of experiment has a finale?” John wrapped her dressing gown around her.

“Investigation is over.” Sherlock began removing the tangled mass of wires from John, counting the ones that had popped loose during their movements.

Funny how the elements you thought would be most distracting turn out to be non-issues, while...

“I know your conclusion,” said John with a wink.

Sherlock stared at her. “Even I don’t know my conclusion, John. I’ll need to download the data from the machines, analyze...”

“Every academic article that has ever been written on every experiment—I’m sorry, _investigation_ —that has ever been conducted has reached the same conclusion, Sherlock.”

They spoke in unison: “Needs more research.”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t know that further _study_ is warranted, perhaps refinement of the application of the working hypothesis.” Sherlock raised one eyebrow, and John hummed, smiling. Sherlock softened her voice. “But, I am interested in _your_ conclusion, John.”

Was it good? Was it better than good? The rubber ball of _more_ escaped from its confines and bounced to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind.  

John ran a hand through her hair.

Finally, she said, “It was not the nightmare I had envisioned. Not at all. Much better when you stopped doing things _to_ me and started doing things _with_ me.”

“Noted,” said Sherlock.

Double-negative was okay. Not as good as a positive, but better than a single negative. Sherlock moved behind the sofa and tacked up more plastic sheeting on the wall. She spread the remaining plastic on every nearby surface.

“Save your final judgment for a few moments.”

“Alright. What do you have up your sleeve?”

Sherlock dragged a small machine from behind the sofa. She sifted the remaining ice from water in the chest and poured it into a funnel at the top of the machine. She flipped a switch.

“OH MY GOD! SHERLOCK!”

Suddenly, the inside of the 221B looked like, well, a snow globe. With John Watson in the middle of the flurries.

“IT’S SNOWING! CHRIST! HA, HA, HA!”

John waved her hands through the whirling flakes. She rose and spun, arms outstretched like a child, laughing, dancing.

Sherlock smiled. “I do love to be dramatic. And most test subjects—at least human ones—are compensated for their time.”

“COME HERE, YOU MAGNIFICENT BEAST! AH! HA, HA, HA! LET IT SNOW! LET IT SNOW! LET IT SNOW!” sang John. “THIS IS INCREDIBLE. UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Sherlock had to agree. She wrapped John in her arms and kissed her soundly. “Thank you for your participation.”

“Alright, you gorgeous madwoman, if all your experiments end with something this...magical...I’d be up for another,” said John as the snow dusted their hair and shoulders. “Plus, there is the fact you probably need a control—without the ice—for comparison.” John looked back at the machines and wiggled her eyebrows.

“More?” asked Sherlock, not hiding her joy.

John brushed the snow from Sherlock’s brow and nodded. “More.”

“It’s Christmas!” exclaimed Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story kicked my butt. Hope you enjoy!


	4. Santa Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland Yard's Finest and the British Government are stuck in their respective offices on Christmas Eve. Rating E. Fem!Mystrade. Office sex. Stripping. Discussion of gender fluidity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiried by [text from Phryne Fisher](http://textsfromphrynefisher.tumblr.com/post/103681610120) of the Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries series. Lestrade's outfit is [here](http://www.pinkqueen.com/Sexy-Classic-Red-Christmas-Santa-Costume-g9844?gclid=CNefoo-bzcICFWdo7AodCkAASw). The holly at the knee really _is_ a nice touch.

“G’night, ma’am. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” said Mycroft. When the door closed, she gave a heavy sigh and reached for her mobile. It buzzed.

“Mycroft...”

“Yes...”

“I’m so, so sorry. This forgery case has just sprouted _Hamas_ legs...”

Mycroft looked at the pile of documents on her desk.

“I know. I’m stuck, too.”

“Maybe we can celebrate Boxing Day?” Lestrade offered.

“Sure.”

“Alright. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.”

* * *

Four hours later, Mycroft was rubbing the bridge of her nose between thumb and finger. Her mobile buzzed again.

“Have time for a break?”

“I was about to pour myself a drink.” She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and removed a flask and a heavy glass tumbler.

“Make it a double.”

Mycroft took the first sip and heard a noise. In an instant, she was a young field agent again. She looked around for weapons, exits, strategies. She’d always preferred to _improvise_. She rose from her chair, letter opener in hand, and then sat back down.

Lestrade appeared in the doorway. She wore the cream-coloured Burberry that Mycroft had given her and a wicked cherry red smile that matched a red Santa hat and red gloves.

She opened the coat dramatically and music began to play.

_Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me._

Mycroft raised one eyebrow and smiled. Lestrade took a small device from her coat pocket and tossed it on the middle of Mycroft’s desk. Eartha Kitt continued to croon.

_Been an awful good girl, Santa baby,_

_So hurry down the chimney tonight._

The Burberry hit the floor to reveal a short red dress with shoulder straps and a wide black belt. It and the elbow-length gloves were trimmed with white fur. Mycroft gave a long whistle. Then she stood up and closed the door. And locked it.

_Santa baby, a '54 convertible too, light blue;_

Mycroft leaned back in her chair and laced her fingers at her chest. Lestrade spun around so that skirt flared, revealing tiny red knickers. Then she hopped up on the far edge of Mycroft’s desk and crossed and uncrossed her legs.

_I'll wait up for you, dear; Santa baby,_

_So hurry down the chimney tonight._

Lestrade turned and leaned toward Mycroft over the desk. That she was perched over documents that—should she look down and read their content—would get both shot for treason, Official Secrets Act or not, did not bother Mycroft. In the least. The dress was cut in a low V, neckline trimmed with white fur. Mycroft met Lestrade’s puckered lips in a soft, chaste kiss.

_Think of all the fun I've missed;_

_Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed;_

Lestrade sat up with her back to Mycroft. She looked over one shoulder and raised an eyebrow. Mycroft grinned. Then Lestrade made a show of plucking each finger of the glove and rolling the fabric off her arm. She tossed the glove behind her. Mycroft caught it and ran the fabric through her hands. Lestrade did the same with the other glove.

_Next year I could be just as good... if you check off my Christmas list._

Steadying her feet on the visitor’s chair, Lestrade arched backwards until her elbows rested on the desk. Her hat slipped off. Mycroft kissed her upside-down forehead, lips, and chin.

_Santa baby, I want a yacht and really that's not a lot;_

_Been an angel all year; Santa baby,_

Mycroft leaned forward and slipped her hands under the neckline of the dress and squeezed Lestrade’s breasts gently.

_So hurry down the chimney tonight._

“Oh, oh, oh,” breathed Lestrade as she arched into Mycroft’s hands, pulsing to the rhythm of the song. Then she sat up abruptly and hopped off the desk. She twirled in the middle of the room, the skirt rising to reveal tiny red knickers.

_Santa honey, one little thing I really need..._

_The deed...to a platinum mine, Santa baby,_

She walked around the desk, and Mycroft swivelled in her chair.

_So hurry down the chimney tonight._

Lestrade rested a black high-heeled shoe on Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft ran her hands up the white stockings to the tiny sprig of holly with two red berries at the knee. “Nice touch,” she mouthed, touching the adornment, as the song continued.

_Santa cutie, and fill my stocking with the duplex and checks;_

Lestrade giggled. She mouthed back, “That’s what sold me.” Mycroft kissed each knee.

_Sign your 'X' on the line, Santa cutie,_

_And hurry down the chimney tonight._

Lestrade turned and bent to sit in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft flipped up the back of the dress and settled Lestrade’s bottom snugly against her crotch. She groaned and then pushed the straps of the dress down and began to kiss Lestrade’s neck and shoulders. She slipped her hands around Lestrade’s waist.

“Oh, Mycroft.”

_Come and trim my Christmas tree with some decorations bought at Tiffany's;_

Mycroft slipped one hand under Lestrade’s skirt and insider her knickers, cupping her mons. The other hand was pushing under the white fur, thumbing her nipple. Lestrade gripped the arms of the chair.

_I really do believe in you;_

Then one finger was teasing Lestrade’s outer folds and then Mycroft's thumb moved to her clit.

_Let's see if you believe in me..._

Lestrade stood up and turned to face Mycroft. They stared at each other with half-lidded eyes. Mycroft pulled Lestrade’s knickers down, and Lestrade kicked them off. “Show me,” she whispered. Lestrade flipped up the skirt with one hand, touching her damp pubic hair. She pulled the neck of the dress down so that her nipples peeked out from the white fur. She teased both buds in turn. Mycroft watched Lestrade’s hands and took a long swig from her glass.

_Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing... A ring..._

Then Mycroft undid the buckle of the wide black belt and let it fall. She stood up and pulled Lestrade to her front. She peeled the fabric of the dress down, kissing and licking and biting Lestrade’s skin as she moved to her knees.

_I don't mean on the phone; Santa baby,_

_So hurry down the chimney tonight._

As the song ended, Mycroft picked Lestrade up and dropped her on the edge of the desk, knocking the chair aside and pushing her body between Lestrade’s legs. They kissed hungrily, Lestrade’s arms wound ‘round Mycroft’s neck.

“Tell Santa,” growled Mycroft, holding Lestrade’s jaw and looking deep into eyes blown black, “Have you been naughty or nice?”

“Oh, oh,” mewled Lestrade. She raised her knees and locking her feet around Mycroft’s back. Mycroft gripped her buttocks.

“Nice girls get a nice, slow tongue-fucking, but naughty girls...”

“Naughty! I’ve been so naughty!” panted Lestrade. Mycroft chuckled and thrust two fingers into Lestrade’s cunt.

“OH! Yes, yes, yes!”

Mycroft pumped roughly and watched Lestrade come undone.

“Christ, please, Mycroft!”

With one loud cry, Lestrade sank her fingers into Mycroft’s back. Even through layers of shirt and waistcoat, the pressure sent a shot of red, hot want to Mycroft’s groin.

“Mycroft, whatever...” Lestrade slid to standing.

Mycroft unfastened her trousers and opened them. She rut frantically against Lestrade’s thigh. Lestrade slipped her hands down the back of Mycroft’s trousers and gripped her buttocks hard.

Mycroft came with a quiet grunt, entirely disproportionate to the massive waves of pleasure that broke inside her. They tumbled into Mycroft’s chair. Lestrade slumped against Mycroft and curled an arm behind her.

“Cliché?” asked Lestrade, looking over her shoulder, smiling.

Mycroft kissed Lestrade’s hand. “Delightfully so. And,” she leaned back and opened the bottom desk drawer with one hand, “one cliché deserves another.” She removed a long thin velvet box and presented it in front of Lestrade.

“Mycroft!” Lestrade opened it. “Oh, my!” She lifted the sparkly necklace. “It’s gorgeous!” Mycroft took the ends from her and fixed the clasp behind Lestrade’s neck. Lestrade touched it against her skin. “But where am I going to wear something this fine? Crime scenes? Monday morning meeting with the Chief Super?”

Mycroft kissed her neck. “To bed,” she said huskily.

Lestrade giggled. Then she turned and curled her body in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft snuck an arm under her knees and another around her back and squeezed her close. They stayed like that, eyes closed, foreheads touching, breathing synchronized, for some time. Mycroft let her thoughts wander.

* * *

When Lestrade opened her eyes, she frowned. “What is it?” she asked softly.

“Do you ever forget...?” Mycroft said and then faltered. She spoke quickly, “Do you ever forget that you’re a woman?”

Lestrade’s eyes widened and then she smiled.

“I...don’t...know. I get it pointed out to me on the job sometimes. In unpleasant ways. Umm, but other than that, I don’t...think...so. Do you?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Something happened?”

Mycroft leaned back and rubbed her brow with one hand. “I...almost...went to the wrong toilet the other day.” She blinked and shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking...me! Not thinking...all I _do_ is think...and...” She breathed deeply. “Now I can’t stop thinking.”

“Being a woman, does it bother you?”

“’Bother’ isn’t quite the right word. Would it matter? To you? If I were...something else?” Mycroft picked up her drink and took a long sip.

Lestrade opened her mouth and then closed it. She tilted her head. After a few moments, she shrugged. “In the beginning, it might have. I’ve never been attracted to men. So I might have discounted you as anything other than a colleague, Sherlock’s menacing guardian, but,” she leaned closer to Mycroft’s face, “I would’ve been wrong. Because now, I love you, Mycroft Holmes. No matter which toilet you use.”

Mycroft smiled.

Lestrade smile faded as she stroked Mycroft’s tie between two fingers. “But...um...the bits and pieces...,” she looked down at her nude form and Mycroft’s rumpled-suited one, “they fit well together, no?”

“Exceedingly well,” said Mycroft, taking her hand and kissing the palm. “It’s not....” She gave a half-hearted gesture at her body. “It’s not that...And I don’t even know if ‘man’ is the answer either.” Mycroft threw back the rest of the amber liquid.

“Something in-between?” suggested Lestrade. Mycroft nodded and set the glass down.

“That’s okay, too,” said Lestrade. She pursed her lips, and Mycroft kissed them.

Mycroft sighed. “I apologize for dampening the holiday spirit with such sober thoughts.”

“Well, I got a sober thought for you.” Lestrade looked at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got to get back.”

Mycroft nodded. “See you in...eight hours?” she asked. “At mine?”

“I’ll wear my new pyjamas.” Lestrade touched the necklace and grinned. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”

“Happy Christmas, my Dear.”


	5. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John quiets Sherlock's cough. Rating T. Sickfic. Hurt/comfort. Nursing kink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [AtlinMerrick](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick) as a tribute to [Chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/458517/chapters/791034) of her [Feeding Sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/458517/chapters/789802), from whence all my nursing kink fics come...

John was hunched over the small crate, prying the top open with a crowbar, when she heard Sherlock’s footsteps—and her cough.

“You’ve still got that cold?” She did not look up.

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock testily, her voice a low rasp. “Harry’s getting a divorce?”

“Yup. Every time my brother either abandons—or is evicted—from his current domestic situation, this crate shows up on my door. It is the sum total of what is left of our childhood. Photos, mementos, documents, etcetera. And when he’s resettled somewhere new and relatively sober, I send it back. Too bad that it’s this close to Christmas, though.” She lifted the lid. “Ah, ah, ah, here we go.” She sifted through the box.

“Tah-dah!”

The newspaper fell away. It was a Christmas nativity scene, Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in the manger in the centre, on a round base. John wound the screw at the back and set it on the table. The three kings and shepherds spun around the edge on a circular track to a tinny, off-key rendition of “Silent Night.”

Sherlock coughed. “That’s horrid!” she croaked.

“I know,” said John, smiling. “It always sounded that bad. Even when we were kids. But my mother _loved_ this thing. I guess that’s why neither Harry nor I have had the heart to bin it. Even after all these years. It can go under the tree or maybe on the table...”

Sherlock picked it up and stomped up the stairs. She returned, barking.

“If you want to subject yourself to the very opposite of musicality, you can do it in the privacy of your own chamber!”

“Sherlock!”

“What!” snapped Sherlock. “Did I hurt your _feelings_? Your absurd devotion to a white-washed memory of martyr-ghost? Or your sheep-dumb attachment to institutionalized superstition?”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot!” She lurched down the hall toward her bedroom, removing her suit jacket and letting it drop as she went.

“No, it’s not,” said John, overtaking her. She caught Sherlock as she fell.

* * *

“Thank you very much,” said John, taking the bag and closing the door. She raced up the stairs and down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

“Here,” she said, opening the bottle and tapping out a large pill. She handed it to Sherlock with the bottle of water that was by the bedside. “Every twelve hours for a week.”

“I’m fine,” insisted Sherlock in a gravelly whisper, but she took the pill and slipped it between her lips. John relaxed as she washed it down. Her skin was grey and lips dry and cracking.

“Pneumonia is not fine, Sherlock. Do you know how many people in this country die from pneumonia?” John sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s not sexy, doesn’t make the news like some other diseases, but it kills plenty.” She took the flannel from the bowl that was on the bedside table and wrung it out. Then she wiped Sherlock’s face and neck. Sherlock turned on her side, and John wiped her back. Sherlock had stripped down to a simple camisole and tap pants.

“Infants,” Sherlock argued. Then she coughed. And coughed. “Old people. Homeless. Institutionalized.”

“Mule-headed proper geniuses who push their _transport_ to the limit and won’t admit when it’s failing them. Luckily, I think there’s only two in that particular demographic. [Your sister tries to hide _a ruptured appendix_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1889934)and you, you...”

Sherlock opened her mouth, but her objection died in a fit of coughing. John held a small bin in front of her. “Spit it out.” Sherlock spit. “Christ, let me get some dry linen.”

_Beep!_

“NO!” said John. She scooped up the mobile and tossed it down the hallway. “No cases, no nothing until you’re better.”

Sherlock rose up off the bed, stumbling, roaring, “JOHN!” She knocked over the bedside table, the bottles of juice and water, the bins and bowls and glasses all went crashing in a mess on the floor.

“SHERLOCK!” It had been quite some time since John had used her battlefield voice. “LAY DOWN! NOW! OR I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN!”

“I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY!”

But John didn’t need to try. Sherlock collapsed back onto the bed, coughing.

“Hold that thought,” said John. She returned with clean sheets. She had just rolled the fitted sheet into a coil and stuffed it under Sherlock. “Roll,” she said. Sherlock rolled over the lump. John moved to the other side of the bed and rolled the sweat-damp sheet off and the clean sheet on. “Head up.” John changed the pillowcase. “You know,” said Sherlock, “for a doctor, you sound an awful lot like a nurse.” John laughed. “Maybe I missed my calling. Maybe, in my mind, I am.” The door bell rang. “Behave. Or you’ll get an enema. And not the good kind.”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” said Lestrade.

“How’d yours do with appendicitis?”

Lestrade groaned. “Here. Cold cases. Two kinds of soup. And liniment.” John took the jar out of the bag and unscrewed it. She sniffed.

“Smells like a festering turd.”

“Yup. But it works. Great-grandmother’s recipe.”

“How many great-grandmothers do you have? Alright. We’ll give it a go. Thank you.”

* * *

“Why are you rubbing me with excrement?”

“New kink. Hush. Or I’ll apply it with the riding crop. And let the leeches have at you.”

Sherlock groaned. “You _are_ a nurse.” She coughed.

* * *

Sherlock’s fever broke around midnight, but the hacking cough persisted.

John went upstairs and changed into a vest and pants. She wound the nativity scene and let it play.

“What to do?” She rubbed her face in her hands. “She needs to sleep; I need to sleep. Christ!” She looked at the manger scene. “Christ, what would you do? No, wait. What would _you_ do?” She plucked the Mary figure from the scene and cocked her head to listen. “Really, maybe. Maybe. Worth a shot. Thank you.” She returned the Mary to its place and exchanged her nightclothes for a dressing gown.

She returned to Sherlock’s side.

“John.” If John didn’t know what the word was, she wouldn’t have recognized it. She looked down at the detritus around the bed, remnants of trial-and-error, the liniment jar, lozenge wrappers, bottles of syrup, dirty spoons, bins of water and towels, a vial of eucalyptus oil, a large pile of flannels.

And cups, cups, cups. Cups of spit, cups of gargled salt water, cups of soup, cups of tea, every variety in the Baker Street cupboard.

John tidied all around the bed and changed the linen again.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was so weak; John’s eyes teared.

“Alright, alright, come here, love.” She eased under Sherlock. “Come here, my girl.” John opened the dressing gown. Sherlock latched onto John’s nipple immediately. “That’s right, that’s right. My girl, my beautiful girl.” Sherlock sucked greedily. John turned them on their sides and pushed and pulled the pillows until they were settled comfortably. Then she relaxed and brushed Sherlock’s hair with her fingers.

John waited. And listened. But the only sound she heard was the occasional suction of Sherlock’s mouth against her breast. John exhaled loudly and closed her eyes. She must have dozed because when she opened them again, Sherlock was nosing at the other breast and snuffling impatiently. John rolled them together to the other side.

Sherlock looked up at John. John smiled. “Rest, love,” she said. Sherlock drew five letters down the centre of John’s torso. S-O-R-R-Y.

“Think I don’t know by now that the only times when you’re _that_ nasty to me are when you’re hurting? _Really_ hurting. Take it, love, take what you need and rest.”

Sherlock did. John felt the tension in Sherlock’s body dissipate. She brushed her lips over Sherlock’s forehead and hummed.

_Silent night, Holy night_

_All is calm, all is bright_

_Round yon virgin, mother and child_

_Holy infant, tender and mild_

_Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in heavenly peace._

* * *

John woke when Sherlock stirred. Morning light filtered through the window.

“Sherlock?” John sat up, alarmed.

“Loo,” said Sherlock. Her voice was still raspy, but intelligible.

“Take another dose.”

“Okay.” Sherlock smirked. She showed John the pill on her tongue and drank from the water bottle.

“Feeling better?”

“Obviously.”

John fell back on the bed. When she opened her eyes again, Sherlock was staring at her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Shower.” Sherlock rose from the bed.

“You feel steady enough? Tea?”

Sherlock huffed and twirled with arms outstretched.

“Yes, please, to the tea.” John got up and padded down the hall. She waited for the kettle to boil.

She turned toward the sitting room and stared.

The nativity scene sat nestled at the base of the Christmas tree.

John picked it up and wound the back. She almost dropped it when the music began to play.

“Oh my God!” She sat it on the table, ran down the hall, laughing, and burst into the toilet. “You sentimental sod. You fixed it. I didn’t even know it _could_ be fixed.”

Sherlock peeked out from the curtain. “A sentiment not completely unfamiliar to me, John. Now where’s my tea?”


	6. Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets an unexpected visitor on Christmas Eve. Rating M. Mycroft/John. Pre-Johnlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by these [goldfish teabags](http://www.charmvilla.com/), which are so adorable that they deserve their own story.

“So no Christmas?”

Sherlock huffed.

“No tree or anything?”

“No. Ridiculous.”

John nodded. “Alright. Good to know. I’ll be spending Christmas Eve with Harry. Umm...will you and your sister...uh...?”

“No.”

“She doesn’t do Christmas either?”

“Oh, she does it. Tree, trimmings, the whole lot. Stupid.” Sherlock spat the final word. “Her husband goes to Switzerland for a fortnight. She trusses up her house like Harrods for nothing. But, no, we don’t _do_ Christmas _together_. Or any other holiday. Or any other day.”

“Understood.”

* * *

Mycroft pulled the string and made the goldfish swim around the cup. Her amused expression faded when she heard the doorbell. She tapped on the screen. She immediately closed her computer and filed the papers on her desk away. She trotted down the stairs, lifting her mobile to her ear.

“Ma’am?”

“Baker Street?” she said with a mix of urgency and concern.

“Quiet.”

“Thank you.”

She opened the door. Cold air and snow flurries swept into the foyer.

“Dr. Watson?”

“Hello, um, I apologize for just dropping in like this. I saw the tree was on,” she pointed to the fairy lights shining through the window, “and thought you might be home.”

“Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Sure. That’d be lovely.”

* * *

“This has got to be the cleverest tea bag I’ve ever seen.” She swirled the goldfish-shaped tea bag around the cup.

“Gift from Taiwanese colleagues. Very clever.” They were in the sitting room, opposite the stately decorated Christmas tree. “You’ve been to see your brother.”

“Yes, guess that’s not a difficult deduction to make.”

“And the visit ended, perhaps, earlier that you anticipated.”

“An even less difficult deduction, when you know that Harry is, as they say, a mean drunk.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally and sipped her tea.

“Lestrade’s working, Mike’s with her family, and I didn’t want to go straight back to Baker Street.”

_You’re a fool, Sherlock Holmes. Always so careless with your things._

_I am never careless. With anything._

“Are you hungry?”

The cup stopped halfway to John’s lips. “You eat?”

Mycroft laughed. “I not only eat, Dr. Watson, I _cook_.”

“Now that I have to see.”

* * *

“Delicious. Really, really good,” said John wiping her mouth. “It’s a veritable Christmas feast. You made all this?” She gestured to the plates of food around them.

“No, no. Much of it was prepared by staff. But...”

“Let me guess, the Yule log?” She pointed to the chocolate Swiss roll, dusted with powdered sugar and decorated with cherries.

Mycroft nodded. “I prefer to bake.”

“Well, that makes us a pair: I prefer to eat, baked, fried, sautéed or otherwise. This is fabulous.” She sighed and licked her spoon. “You know, it’s my first Christmas back in London. I knew it would be difficult, but...never mind. This definitely tastes like Christmas.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said Mycroft stiffly. “Would you like to experience more Christmas?”

John dropped a cloth napkin on the table. “I don’t want to impose anymore than I have. I’m sure you have a war to start or finish or...”

“Dr. Watson, my sister and I are very different in many ways, but neither of us have the habit of making insincere invitations. You _are_ welcome.”

“Alright then.”

Mycroft rose from the table. “This way.”

* * *

“Oh my God,” said John as Mycroft opened the double doors.

“It is normally the formal dining room, but I have no need for one of those at this time of year. So, for a brief period, it is converted it into...”

“A Dickensian Christmas village.” The platform that filled the centre of the room was decorated with tiny shops and gaslights and fir trees and horse-drawn carriages—all dusted white with snow. Mycroft flipped a switch and a train began to chug around the track that bordered the display. John’s eyes lit up. “Wow. This is a lot of work.”

“My husband’s hobby. But, festive.”

“I’ll say.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure,” said John, moving around the table, marvelling at the tiny frozen pond with skating figures, the carousel, the mountain with tram, the tunnel. Mycroft returned with a tray and set it on a small table in front of a sofa, which was pushed against the wall.

“You’ve no staff at all tonight?” asked John.

“I’m not a Scrooge, Dr. Watson.” _Not like some people._

John blushed. “No, you’re not. You’ve been incredibly hospitable, especially considering not too long ago, you had me kidnapped.”

“You surprised me then, Dr. Watson, and—to be quite candid—you surprised me this evening. In my...line of work...surprises are not a common occurrence.”

“Glad I could oblige. Twice.” John grinned and sipped the coffee.

_It terrifies her, her reaction to you. Do you understand that? No, probably not. How could you?_

“Music?”

John’s smile grew wider. “Yeah, got anything Christmas-y?”

“Of the popular culture vein or more traditional carols?” asked Mycroft, moving to the stereo system on the far wall.

“Start with one and end with the other. Mix it up. Hostess’ choice. I have no preference.”

When Mycroft returned, she removed her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. She propped her feet on the small table, and John did likewise. They sat, side-by-side, watching the hypnotic journey of the train, sipping coffee, and listening to the tunes about white Christmases and babies in mangers and Santas coming to town.

_I'll have a blue Christmas without you_

John placed her empty mug on the tray and folded her arms behind her head. “Aw, Elvis. Sing it, man.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. And hummed along.

_I'll be so blue just thinking about you_

_Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree_

_Won’t be the same dear, if you're not here with me._

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Mycroft. She passed through the doors to the main sitting room and then looked around the tree and out the window. She could not see any familiar silhouette in the shadows like the ghost of Christmas Future, but she knew that she was there. Somewhere.

_Lurk. Pine. Serves you right._

Mycroft switched off the tree lights and drew the curtains.

_You'll be doin’ all right, with your Christmas of white,_

_But I'll have a blue, blue Christmas_.

“Dr. Watson, you’re welcome to stay. There is plenty of room at the inn. I depart quite early in the morning, but...”

John yawned. “Alright. Should I text Sherlock and let her know? I mean, do you think that she cares?”

_Oh, Dr. Watson. Silly, silly Dr. Watson._

“I imagine that Sherlock isn’t the type of flatmate who waits up,” said Mycroft amiably. _She’s the type of flatmate that lurks, outside, in the snow, and stares._

“Yeah, that’d be me, but she cured me of that very fast.”

_Foolish and careless._

* * *

“Everything satisfactory?” asked Mycroft when John was ensconced in the guest room.

“Yes, very, very comfortable. Thank you again, Mycroft, for everything. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas. Don’t mention it. I mean that literally, Dr. Watson, don’t _ever_ mention it again.”

John chuckled. “Alright. My lips are sealed. G’night.”

Mycroft went upstairs and prepared for bed. She slipped beneath the covers.

And thought.

She would stay in this bed. She would not venture downstairs.

She would not raise her fist to knock and have the door of the guest bedroom open. She would not return the other woman’s smile and feel a jolt of electricity when she laced her fingers in Mycroft’s and lead her to the bed. Without a word.

Dr. Watson, Dr. Watson.

John.

She would have scars. Of course, she would have scars. Mycroft had read her service record, her medical record, all her records. So she would understand when Mycroft turned off the lights before removing her nightclothes and slipping between the sheets. And if she felt skin that was not quite smooth, the very opposite of smooth, actually, she would not steel herself or gasp or recoil. She would explore, first with fingers and then, perhaps an affectionate nose, and then with a warm, wet tongue.

And Mycroft would melt. Melt like snow in noonday sun.

In Mycroft’s fantasy, there was no talking. Just the sounds of...love-making? Mycroft winced at the word. Fucking? Even worse. Whatever the appellation, there would be grunts and sighs and exclamations and maybe, if the good doctor was ticklish, and Mycroft suspected that she might be, an adolescent giggle when fingertips danced under arms and behind knees. A noise as charming as a goldfish swimming in a teacup.

And Mycroft would be charmed. Perhaps even—temporarily, of course—smitten.

Of the details, Mycroft’s mind was vague. But one did not earn the moniker ‘Three Continents’ without some... _finesse_...so Mycroft would follow her lover’s lead. But it would end with Mycroft slipping between open legs and two bodies, both scarred, one cold and one impossibly warm, finding release.

And if Mycroft’s name escaped her lips, well, that would be the proverbial cherry on top. It was her fantasy, after all. It could end any way she chose. And she chose to lower the curtain with Dr. Watson...that is, with John, curled against her, naked, warm, pliant, sated, snuffling in nightmare-free sleep.

* * *

Mycroft laid the small box in front of the closed bedroom door before she departed. She had little hope that the goldfish teabags inside would actually find their way to a cup. She suspected—and, as it often did, time would prove her right—that her gift would not survive at the Baker Street flat. But it might provide the Doctor with a few moments of delight prior to its mysterious disappearance, or depending on Sherlock’s mood, sensational destruction.

* * *

**Give her back. Now. SH**

Mycroft slipped the mobile in her inside jacket pocket without replying.

“So,” said Anthea. “Cairo...”

“Yes, negotiations could go one of two ways...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like a little John/Mycroft every now and then. It's like a palette cleanser.


	7. We Three Kings (Part 1 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's inspired by Advent candles. Rating E. Fem!Johnlock. Wax play.

“I’m working, John! At a crime scene! There’s a thing called ‘Google.’ Or if that fails your Know-It-All flatmate!” said Lestrade impatiently.

“It can’t be that interesting of a crime scene. Know-it-All is here,” said John.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not look up from her laptop.

“You’re beginning to sound like her, _John_.”

“I don’t like Google, _Greg_ , and you never miss an opportunity to show me that you’re the better Catholic. So which comes next: the pink or the purple candle?”

“It goes purple, purple, pink, purple, white. Hope, peace, joy, love, Jesus.”

“But I thought they were supposed to get lighter in colour, the closer we got to Christmas? So wouldn’t the pink come right before the white?”

Lestrade huffed.

“Now who sounds like Sherlock!” said John.

At this, Sherlock turned her head and stared at John, who was standing over an Advent wreath, a box of candles in hand.

“Alright, alright. Thank you,” sang John sweetly.

“Bye!”

John removed five candles from the box. “Purple, purple, pink, purple, white. Hope, peace, joy, love, Jesus.” She stared at the candles for some time. She bit her bottom lip and then clumsily shoved the candles in the holders around the wreath.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Yes.”

“You know, most of the time it’s extraordinary, but once in a while, it’s just plain annoying, your whole mind-reading thing. You don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I know enough to know that my answer is ‘yes.’” Sherlock rose from the desk, strode to John’s side, and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s something that would elevate your pulse and respiratory rate, dilate your eyes, and make you bite your bottom lip. Most likely something sexual that both intrigues and embarrasses you. If it’s the former, it more than likely involves me and if you’re embarrassed about it, it’s even _more_ than likely you won’t mention it without a bit of encouragement. And therefore, I say ‘Yes, I am interested, John. Please tell me what you were thinking.’” The final phrases were purred in John’s ear.

“Even I am not sure exactly what I was thinking.”

Sherlock huffed.

“Tea?” asked John.

“Yes.”

John passed by Sherlock on the way to the kitchen. She stopped when Sherlock said,

“I masturbated to _Away in the Manger_.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. When you were decorating the tree. You were playing carols to ‘get in the mood.’”

“For Christmas!” cried John.

“Well, I got in the mood for something else. You seemed very _absorbed_...”

“...you mean _frustrated_...”

“...by the placement of the fairy lights so I just,” Sherlock closed her eyes and said slowly, “ _took care of it myself_.”

“ _Away in the Manger_ , eh?” said John, putting the kettle on and taking down the tea tin. She stifled a giggle.

“Are you _judging_ me, John?!” said Sherlock, affronted. “Are you _laughing_ at me?!”

“No, no, Love. It’s just...,” John removed two mugs from the cupboard, “ _Away in the Manger_ has to be the least wankable song in the whole Christmas canon. I mean, even _We Three Kings_ has a more...erotic,” John rolled her eyes at the word, “rhythm.”

Sherlock made a dramatic show of turning her back to John.

“Love, Love, Love, I am not laughing at you.” She curled her arms around Sherlock’s waist and rested her head between her shoulder blades. She took a deep breath. “It’s silly. I...um...not that I want to _do_ anything about...not that I’m even interested or anything...just an image that flashed in my mind...”

“Me masturbating to _Away in a Manger_?” said Sherlock in a quiet voice.

“No, no.” John chuckled. “You with...wax from those candles...on your skin. The colours, the colour of your skin...I don’t know...”

“Yes!” said Sherlock, whipping around, eyes bright. “We can try it. I want to try it.”

“Sherlock, I didn’t say...”

“John!”

“Sherlock, I don’t know anything about... _that_...I don’t know what’s safe or not...and if I ended up burning you, I’d...” John ran a hand through her hair. She moved toward the kitchen.

Sherlock caught her hand and pulled her back. “Allow me to do the research,” she said huskily.

John stared into her eyes. “Okay.” The kettle screeched, and John returned to the kitchen and turned off the stove.

In a few minutes, John handed Sherlock a steaming mug. She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t actually masturbate to _Away in the Manger_ , did you? It was one of those tricks, the ones you use to get witnesses to tell you things.”

Sherlock smiled. “Not a complete fabrication. You were right.”

“Right about what?” asked John, raising the mug to her lips.

“ _Away in the Manger_ is the least wankable song in Christmas canon. _We Three Kings_ had a much more erotic rhythm.”

John snorted tea up her nose.


	8. We Three Kings (Part 2 of 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from Chapter 7. Fem!Johnlock. Rating E. Wax play. Object penetration.

“How about Tuesday?” asked Sherlock.

“Hmm?” John looked up from her paperback novel.

“Tuesday is Epiphany.”

John rubbed her lips and considered. “Actually, that’s quite perfect. ‘We Three Kings.’ I do love a theme.”

“I know,” said Sherlock smugly.

* * *

John’s room was selected as milieu in the fatalist logic that if they were to somehow burn down the flat, Mr. Hudson could perhaps escape before the flames engulfed him downstairs. The accoutrement was assembled piece by piece: a fire extinguisher; candles of different shapes and sizes, but three distinct colours: purple, pink and white; burn first aid supplies; non-flammable drape. John had spent the better part of two days locked in her bedroom, testing and retesting the candles on her own skin until she was satisfied with the results; and Sherlock, for her part, resisted the urge to interrupt John’s efforts lest any intervention or even comment, no matter the intention, derail the plan.

Sherlock pushed the bedroom door open. John rose from where she was unrolling and smoothing the drape on the floor. Sherlock unsuccessfully hid her whimper with a loud, obnoxious clearing of her throat.

“Interesting choice of trouser,” she said finally, gesturing to John’s military fatigues. “You, um, rarely wear them...or the dog tags.”

John also wore a black athletic bra and black vest. She stood in bare feet with her arms crossed over her chest. “I wanted to remind you who’s in charge.” Sherlock pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body. “Are you going to swoon?” teased John.

“What girl doesn’t appreciate a soldier in uniform?” said Sherlock defensively.

“Sit.”

Sherlock sat. John bent her knees and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Safeword?”

“Balthazar.”

John giggled and then kissed Sherlock’s lips. “You know you’re quite perfect.”

“Mmm.”

“Alright. Melchior if it’s just too hot, but you want me to keep going. Sort of ‘yellow light.’”

Sherlock untied her dressing gown. John slipped it off her shoulders and hung it in the wardrobe. She switched off the lights and lit candles one-by-one all around the edge of the room. When there was enough light, she returned to Sherlock.

“You’ll take photographs?” The camera and tripod were in the corner of the room. John huffed.

“I want to see what you see, John.” Sherlock began tying up her hair.

John shrugged. “Only of you.”

Sherlock huffed. “Naturally.”

John went to the desk and suddenly a faint, haunting melody could be heard. A single oboe, accompanied by strings, told of a journey across fields and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star.

“Instrumental version. Lyrics would distract.”

“I wouldn’t want that,” said Sherlock in mock horror.

“Warm enough?”

Sherlock nodded.

John picked up a bottle and settled behind Sherlock on the floor. She poured some oil in her hand and began to smooth it over the slope of Sherlock’s neck and the curve of her shoulders. She massaged the cords of muscle, burying her finger deep in Sherlock’s flesh. Sherlock’s eyes closed slowly.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve...”

“Too long,” slurred Sherlock. “Ugh, ugh, ugh.” As John’s fingers loosened a stubborn knot.

“This oil is supposed to make the wax come off easier in the end.” John rubbed Sherlock’s biceps and down her arm to her wrists and fingers.

“You scented it. Is that actually...?” asked Sherlock.

“Myrrh? Just a drop or two.” John moved back up to Sherlock’s neck and then down her spine to her buttocks, spreading the oil evenly and pressing her fingers into the knotted flesh.

“You _do_ love a theme.”

“Mm-hmm.” John rubbed oil on Sherlock’s chest, along her clavicles, around her breasts and nipples, in her cleavage, across her ribs.

“You know it’s an embalming oil? _John_.” John was working Sherlock’s breasts with strong hands, lifting and pushing and squeezing them.

“In this context, I prefer to think of it as ‘anointing’ rather than ‘embalming,’ but we look at enough corpses, if it turns you on to think about being gussied up like one, be my guest.

Sherlock shot her a sharp look.

“No mummification, Sherlock.”

Sherlock relaxed. John oiled her stomach and the tops of her thighs.

“Let me have your feet,” said John. Sherlock uncoiled and stretched out her legs. She leaned back on her elbows while John massaged oil into her feet.

“Are you going to put wax on the soles of my feet?”

“Probably not, but you’ve been clomping around in those torture device that you call fashionable footwear all week so, I figure _this_ ,” Sherlock dropped her head back and groaned at the ceiling as John sank her thumbs deep in Sherlock’s heel, “might feel good. And I want my precious girl to feel good. Always.”

John applied oil to Sherlock’s ankles and calves and knees, massaging as she went. “Sit on your heels again.” John moved behind Sherlock. She reached her hands around and rubbed oil into the juncture of thigh and pelvis. She worked the flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks with long, deep strokes. Sherlock rose up and down to the tempo of the music and John’s ministrations.

“John, John...”

“Maybe just a little fuck, no? Before we start. Take the edge off.”

“What edge?!” breathed Sherlock. “Fuck me. Put your...Ow!” John pinched Sherlock’s side, hard.

“Uh-uh. Who’s in charge, Sherlock? I fuck you how I want right now. Until you say the word.” John spooned her body tightly behind Sherlock’s and draped the dog tags over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock moaned.

“John, John, John...” Sherlock chanted and reached and arm back.

“I’ve got you, Love.” Both of John’s hands went to Sherlock’s clit, moving slowly and gently up and down either side.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sherlock’s mouth was open. John took the round circle of metal and pressed it to Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“Bite,” ordered John. “While I fuck this gorgeous cunt.” Sherlock bit down on the metal. The chain from John’s neck to Sherlock’s teeth swung as John rocked their bodies together. Then she stopped and ran her hands up Sherlock’s torso, her fingers moving swiftly over slick skin, and squeezed her breasts, cupping them, and pinching the nipples.

Sherlock whimpered. John’s hands moved back to Sherlock’s mons.

“So fucking gorgeous. And you’re going to look even more gorgeous when we’re through. Cherished, adored, worshipped, anointed, my beautiful girl. Painted like the treasure you are. My precious jewel, my Queen.” One hand stayed teasing Sherlock’s clit and the other moved so as to slip one finger in her wet cunt.

“JOHN!” The dog tags dropped from Sherlock’s mouth, and John felt the Sherlock’s climax.

Sherlock panted and slumped forward. John gently lowered her to the ground, rubbing her back and shoulders gently.

“Good girl, good girl.”

Sherlock rolled onto her back. She smiled at John and looked up at her through hooded eyes.

“This is just the beginning.”

John grinned and nodded.

Sherlock breathed a soft moan.

* * *

“I look like a tadpole,” grumbled Sherlock as she fit the cap on her head.

“Sexy tadpole,” reassured John. “Who won’t have the unpleasant experience of getting wax out of her luxurious mane later. I don’t want wax in your hair—any of it.” Sherlock wore a thong that covered her pubic area. I’ll take it all off, the minute your tresses are out of danger, rest assured.” John kissed her cheek.

John checked on the first set of candles, testing one a final time on her wrist. “Probably not a great idea to start with a dark colour, but...”

“Theme,” answered Sherlock.

“Yup.” John set the candle down.

“Because the first candle is hope.” John took a dark scarf and held in front of Sherlock’s eyes.

“John?”

“Trust me, Sherlock.” John tied the blindfold.

“Of course I trust you, but I want to observe.”

“You’ve got four other senses, observe with them. Lean forward a little bit, Love.”

“ _Oh!_ ”

John let the first drops of wax fall from a considerable distance above Sherlock. The purple colour dripped down the left side of Sherlock’s back.

“You’re going to be more gorgeous than I imagined. How’s it?”

“Good. Interesting.”

“Interesting’s better than good in Sherlockian. Too hot?”

“No, no. _Oh, oh_.” John lowered the candle and watched the colour drip down the other side of Sherlock’s back.

“Hotter. Okay?”

“Okay. AH-AH!” Another drop.

“Too much?”

“Not bad, but...”

“I’ll stay above it—unless you get too cheeky.”

“ _John_.”

* * *

“Hope,” John mused, decorating Sherlock’s back to her lover’s grunts and sighs. “Oh...." She set the candle down and went back to the desk.

“John?”

“I’m here.” John lit the votive.

Sherlock sniffed and chuckled. “Incense. Frankincense.”

“Mmm. This reminds me of midnight Mass.”

John squat down in front of Sherlock’s blindfolded face.

“I’ve often wondered, John, how you can believe in a Church that would condemn you for lying next to me.”

“I wonder that myself, Love. They got me early; they got me good. Every time a scandal hits the news, I get so angry and stop going, but I always go back. It’s faith, not logic. But I believe in a lot more than just ‘bells and smells.’” John moved around to Sherlock’s back and resumed the dripping. “I believe that every time we leave the front door, we’ll both come back in one piece. I believe that my place in life is by your side and that my true vocation—above all others—to give you the space and the nourishment and the protection you need to be... _you_. I believe you’re a great woman and...a good one.”

John stood up and admired her handiwork. “And my principle hope every morning is that I get to spend the day with you.” She walked around in front of Sherlock’s kneeling form. Sherlock held her hand up, and John instinctively laced her fingers in Sherlock’s. Sherlock squeezed her hand.

“You believe so many things, John. Hope so many things. I have just one,” she croaked. John nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s face and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“That you stay. Take a photograph.”

“Sure, Love.”

* * *

“The next candle...,” said John, testing the second purple one, “...is peace. On your right side, Love.” John tossed a couple of pillows on the floor and put a small piece of drape over them. “I don’t want to splatter on your face, Sherlock.” She straddled Sherlock’s left hip, careful not to rest too much weight on her.

When the first drops hit the centre of Sherlock’s shoulder, she hissed.

“John, John...Caspar.”

John stopped and frowned. “Sherlock?”

“Means ‘More, please!’”

John laughed. “Wait; let it cool a little, Love.” John took a small wooden stick and began to carve in the soft purple wax. “They taught us ‘If you want peace, work for justice.’ I’m pretty sure that’s the driving force behind Lestrade’s whole career. I’d like to think...”

“Ah!” cried Sherlock as another drop hit her and rolled down the back of her arm.

“...that on top of the science and puzzle-solving, your Work...”

“...our Work...” corrected Sherlock. “Oh, oh, OH!” The next drop dripped forward, just skimming Sherlock’s left nipple.

“...provides some justice, and some peace. Takes bad guys off the streets, gives grieving loved ones some answers, rights some wrongs.”

“AH! Melchior,” said Sherlock, panting.

John set the candle down quickly and spooned behind Sherlock.

“I’m done here, Love.” John nuzzled behind Sherlock’s ear and kissed the skin there. “You’re doing good, so good, beautiful, like art.”

“I know...what you did...what you were doing,” said Sherlock. John saw two tiny dark spots emerge on the fabric of the blindfold. Sherlock touched her left shoulder gently. “You made me a scar.”

“Because, you and I, we can’t talk about peace without talking about war.” John kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Take a photograph, John, please.”

“Hmm.”

When John returned to Sherlock, she laid on her back beside her, taking one of Sherlock’s pillows and adjusting it under her. It was awkward positioning, but Sherlock’s fingers, and then her mouth found John’s scar. She lapped eagerly, like a kitten with milk, at the entire expanse of mangled flesh. Sherlock’s breathing slowed and finally, she said,

“Caspar.”

* * *

“Joy,” said John. She picked up the pink candle.

“Lift your head back, Sherlock.” Sherlock was seat, legs outstretched, leaning back on her hands. “I’m going to _experiment_.” Sherlock smirked.

John sat on Sherlock’s thighs. She tapped the candle and watched the pink wax splatter across Sherlock’s breast and cleavage.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Yeah, so pretty.” John continued to make designs across Sherlock’s torso.

“Joy. Not a concept I really understand,” said Sherlock. “There’s the thrill of the Game. Of solving the puzzle.”

“To be frank, I don’t know that it’s something I embrace too often either. But it is a joy to watch your mind at work, Love. Sit up. I want to make wider streaks down your breasts.” Sherlock groaned softly, but sat up. John put a protective hand over Sherlock’s face and held the pink candle closer to Sherlock’s chest.

“Ah, ah, AH! Never celebrated Christmas. Or anything,” mumbled Sherlock into John’s fingers. The ‘before you’ hung unspoken between them. “It’s...good. Celebrating.”

“Mmm. Alright. Lay flat on your back. Last one is Love.”

* * *

Neither woman said anything. The room was silent except for Sherlock’s gasps and moans. She rolled back and forth as purple wax dropped atop pink, and the colour dripped down her sides to the floor.

The two colours began to pool in the valleys of Sherlock’s body. John stopped and drank in the sight.

“Take a photograph,” begged Sherlock.

“Not yet.” John went back to the desk and unscrewed a small jar. She pinched the dust between her fingers and sprinkled it over Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock curled her feet up and laughed as it hit her.

“Gold! You romantic creature, you!”

“Hold still, Sherlock! This is expensive stuff. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Make me!”

John did. She put her hand over Sherlock’s crotch and rubbed roughly, until Sherlock keened.

“JOHN!” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand between her thighs and turned on her side. John rolled her back, gently.

“Keep your eyes closed.” The blindfold came off, and so did the cap. John loosened Sherlock’s hair in a fan around her head. Sherlock mumbled, “Love, love, love.” And if she felt the blade at her hip, slicing through the side of knickers, she only whimpered in response. When Sherlock was naked, John climbed on a chair with camera and took the photograph. She took a couple more from either side, above and then level with Sherlock on the floor. She put the camera on the desk.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

“John. Love.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Sherlock pushed up on her hands. She looked down at her body and turned her head to take in purple mass on her left shoulder. She smiled. Then she frowned.

“There’s one left. The white one.”

John nodded. “Jesus. Sherlock...?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Anything, John.”

* * *

“This could get addictive, Sherlock,” said John as she tied Sherlock’s other wrist to the headboard.

“The thought occurred to me as well.”

“Okay?” asked John.

Sherlock pulled on both ties. She nodded and grinned. “This is a little crucifixion for Christmas, no?” Her arms were bound outstretched.

John knelt in front Sherlock’s, their faces within a breath’s distance of each other. She pushed Sherlock’s chin up and twisted her head one way and the other. She kissed and licked at Sherlock’s neck with feral possessiveness. She whispered in her ear, “You are my hope, my peace, my joy, and my love. My precious girl, my gorgeous treasure, my regal Queen. But right now...in this moment...,” John’s voice fell to a rough growl.

“...you’re my fucktoy.” John took the white candle—that had been very, very carefully selected and prepared—and teased the lips of Sherlock’s cunt with a blunt end.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Sherlock.

“Precisely,” said John and pushed the candle inside Sherlock.

“OH, HO, HO!” huffed Sherlock. “John, John...Mmmph.” John rubbed a thumb across Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock bit at the pad and growled. “Look,” ordered John. She put a firm hand behind Sherlock’s head and pushed it down. “Look at your wanton cunt take it.” John thrust the candle gently in and out of Sherlock. Sherlock bent her knees and arched her hips slightly. “Aw, that’s right.” John let go of the end of the candle and slid flat to the bed. She licked at the crease of each of Sherlock’s thigh and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s clit. Sherlock pulled hard against her ties, slamming the headboard against the wall when they didn’t give way. John looked up with one eyebrow raised and grinned. “More?”

“Caspar!” Sherlock pulled and pulled, to no avail. Then she bucked her hips wildly, digging her heels into the bed. John pumped the candle in and out of Sherlock, until her cries crescendo-ed.

“John, John, John...NO!” John got up from the bed. “What? What?!” Sherlock’s eyes looked imploringly at her.

“Shhh, shhh, who’s in charge, Sherlock?” John dropped her trousers and returned to Sherlock’s audible sigh.

“Watch,” ordered John.

And it took a few moments, but finally the hips and legs and cunts were aligned.

“ _John_.”

And the other end of the candle was inside John.

“That’s how we work, Sherlock. Always. I’m inside you. But, you, you’re inside me, too.”

“ _John, John, John_.”

John moved her hips against Sherlock’s and gave a sharp, hard thrust while her teeth sank into the side of Sherlock’s neck. “You know what to say, Sherlock,” panted John in her ear.

“JESUS! ARGH!”

And in an instant, the candle was clattering to the floor and the ties were cut and Sherlock crumpled against John, trembling.

“I got you, I got you, Sherlock. Good girl, good girl, my beautiful girl. My hope, my peace, my joy, my love. We’re done, Love. Open your eyes, Sherlock. Look at me. You okay?”

Sherlock’s gaze was unfocused. She managed one word.

“Love.”

“I love you, you gorgeous girl. Love every part of you. You did so good.” John cradled Sherlock in her arms, and they stayed like that for some time.

* * *

“Drink,” said John. Sherlock gulped the water down; she was sitting on the side of the bed, dressing gown draped over her shoulders; John, redressed, knelt between her knees. “You want some tea?” Sherlock shook her head. “Okay. I may need a drink at some point, but I’m not going to leave you right now. I’m going to tidy up a little. You just sit there and _be_. And drink, please.” John pressed the water bottle in Sherlock’s hand.

John moved around the room. Sherlock picked idly at the cooled wax on her belly.

“Epiphany.”

John looked up from the plastic rubbish bag and grinned. “Definitely. And Sherlock...not now...but when you’re ready...,” John’s voice was soft and low, “we’re going to need to get that wax off and treat your skin.” John held up her military-issued knife and a bottle of lotion.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Aftercare,” she mumbled, touching her lips. “More epiphanies to come.”


	9. Figgy Pudding (a 221B)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The landlords offer a Christmas toast to their tenants. Rating G. Mr. Hudson & Mr. Turner. References to other chapters in this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tribute to [entanglednow's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow) classic [Strawberry Pavolva](http://archiveofourown.org/works/312882). Title is from the song "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

“Turner.”

“Hudson.”

“Happy Christmas.”

“To you too, Sir.”

“Here we go. A mediocre pudding and a fine brandy.”

Mr. Turner sipped. “Very fine. So how’ve things been? Miss the neighbourhood. How’re the girls?” He gestured to the ceiling.

“Good, good. How’re the married ones?”

“Split up.”

“Too bad.”

“Apparently both had affairs with the same man.”

“Goodness! A man?”

“Got a new pair. Remind me of yours.”

Mr. Hudson scoffed.

“Incredible, but true. The wee one is the odd one. An _artist_.”

“Any good?”

“No, but I go in for bucolic landscapes, not spots and dots. The tall one is the normal one. Works in a posh tea shop when she’s in town, but her regular job is with the airlines. Gone a lot. Got me a fabulous deal on a trip to Ibiza. And how the wee one pines when she’s gone! Pitiful. Shooting up the furniture at three in the morning!”

Mr. Hudson groaned. “Their first Christmas, they broke my heart, circling each other like wounded animals. Wanted to knock their heads together. But they figured it out. And now, Sherlock’s taken the good doctor on an impromptu holiday.” He smiled.

“To our girls,” said Mr. Turner, raising his glass.

“To our girls.”

Mr. Turner nudged the pudding with his spoon. “Why do we eat this stodge?”

“More brandy?”


	10. The Land of Sweets from the Nutcracker Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty distracts herself waiting for a drugged Moran to stir. Rating E. Non-con voyeurism and touching. Masturbation. Follows Chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate, coffee, tea, candy canes, ginger, the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier are all featured in the Act II of the ballet [The Nutcracker](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nutcracker) with music by Tchaikovsky.

Moriarty woke furious. She scowled at the gnawed leg of duck on the floor by her chair.

Sherlock Fucking Holmes had drugged the duck! The duck that she and Seb had stolen—along with the rest of the Christmas trappings—from 221B, but still.

It chafed.

_Seb!_

Moriarty raced to the sofa. She checked Seb’s pulse, lifted her eyelids, and listened to her breathing. Alive, but drugged, just like herself. Well, Seb had eaten more of the duck than Moriarty, positively attacked it the minute that they had returned to the flat, so she would take longer to come out of the pharmaceutical stupor.

Moriarty studied her lover, slumped face down in the cushions, still in her red-and-white suit and antlers. The white beard was pulled down on her chin, a chin coated with duck grease.

“My Sebbie.”

Moriarty pressed a kiss to Seb’s cheek. She noted the green mark her lips left.

_Shower!_

Moriarty padded to the toilet, dropping her Grinch suit as she went. She gasped when she looked in the mirror.

There was an ink-drawn moustache on her upper lip.

Seb...or... _Sherlock?!_

Moriarty scurried back to the stolen feast. The only thing missing was the tea tin.

 _Sherlock!_ Interesting.

She would have to increase security. Close call that Seb hadn’t actually touched the tin. Moriarty wanted to protect her hide-bearer’s identity at all costs. Seb wasn’t in any existing database; best to keep it that way.

Moriarty scrubbed her face clean and then stepped into a steamy shower. The green body paint swirled down the drain. She emerged in a red kimono with a gold embroidered dragon on the back.

“Sebbie, Sebbie, Sebbie,” she cooed. The skirt to the Santa suit had hitched up on Seb’s hip. Moriarty gave her lover’s white stockinged legs an appreciative glance.

What to do until her Tiger woke? Music? It was Christmas after all. But something soothing. The very opposite of what those imbecilic yodellers would be singing on the pavement. Russian ballet? Yes. Perfect.

The soft melody filled the flat. Moriarty smiled. Then she looked at Seb. She caught a peek of cleavage where the suit gaped.

Hmmm. _Wake up, Sebbie. So we can play._ Moriarty took a deep breath and looked around the flat. She got a large bag and disposed of all the food they’d stolen from 221B. It was highly likely that only the duck was drugged, but she didn’t want to risk it.

At the end of her task, Moriarty found she was...peckish.

_Chocolate!_

Only her Tiger knew that the world’s only consulting criminal had, well, a bit of sweet tooth. Moriarty hunted in the back of the cupboard for the box of Belgian chocolates that Seb had foolishly tried to hide from her. She carried the box to the sitting room and sat opposite Seb’s unconscious form. She stuck a fingernail in the bottom of each, discerning the flavour. Most she ate; a few she threw on the floor.

“Bleh! Raspberry. This one’s for you, Sebbie.” She placed the molested truffle on the side table. “For when you wake up.” She stared at Seb’s hands. Her strong, capable, lethal hands.

Mmm. She wanted those hands on her. Now. _Wake up, Seb!_

The orchestra played on.

_Coffee!_

Seb had such a rabid tea fetish that Moriarty felt positively adulterous drinking coffee in front of her. She should take this opportunity to make herself a strong cup of coffee and drink it, without snide comment or stare. Or guilt.

Moriarty sipped her coffee and looked at her Tiger. She should take that beard off. She got a pair of scissors and snipped the end and slipped it away from Seb’s face. And the antlers. Really, now that the assignment was over, they were ridiculous.

Much better. Now she could see her Tiger’s visage. _So beautiful._ Hmm. Those stockings were probably uncomfortable.  _Cutting off her circulation!_ Moriarty finished the coffee and set the mug on the side table. She pulled the toe of the stockings and cut it. Then she carefully snipped up one leg. She watched Seb’s face, but her lover showed no signs of stirring. Moriarty eased the edge of the suit aside and continued cutting to Seb’s waist. Then she pulled the nylon away from Seb’s leg and hip.

_Oh, Sebbie. No knickers. Of course._

Moriarty’s next step was inevitable: she cut up—even more carefully this time—the other leg. She slowly peeled away all the clingy fabric that was not directly under Seb’s body.

_Oh. Her gorgeous, gorgeous cunt._

_Sebbie, wake up! Now!_

Moriarty flipped the suit over Seb’s cunt and hurried to the kitchen.

_Tea!_

Moriarty made a cup of Seb’s favourite tea and drank it, standing in the kitchen. She tried to drive the image of Seb’s sleepy cunt from her mind. Fucking Seb’s sweet, sleepy cunt. Fucking herself on Seb’s sweet, sleepy cunt. She poured herself another cup.

_Argh!_

She grabbed a box of ginger biscuits that Seb had brought home from the shop and went back to the sitting room, dropping them on the side table. She sipped the tea and paced around the room.

The Baker Street Christmas tree twinkled at her, a taunting twinkle, emblematic of its original owners. She threw back the dregs of the tea and set the cup down. Then she plucked one of the long, plastic-sheathed candy canes that adorned the tree and inched with feigned nonchalance toward her lover. Like a picking a lock, she used the straight end of the candy cane to unfasten the hooks of Seb’s suit and the curved end to ever-so-gently lift the fabric. The curve of her breast, the plane of her stomach, and her gorgeous, gorgeous cunt.

_SEB! WAKE UP!_

Moriarty bit through the candy cane. She spit out the plastic in her mouth and removed the rest of the wrapping. Then she crunched, crunched, crunched. She wanted to rub the minty stick on Seb’s lips, on her nipples, draw silly designs with it on her skin, and lick it all off. Decorate her with chocolate and then devour her.

 _Crunch, crunch, crunch._ She plucked another candy cane from the tree and ate it. _Crunch, crunch, crunch._

She squat in her chair and stared at Seb.

_Fuck it._

Moriarty strode to Seb and eased the suit off her lover’s left shoulder, exposing the tiger tattoo. She returned to her chair and shoved two, then three ginger biscuits in her mouth. With one eye fixed on the tattoo, Seb’s tattoo, of course, but her tattoo, also, because it’s the one she’d given her beautiful girl when...when...

Moriarty curled toward the arm of the chair and shoved a hand under the kimono between her legs. She came in seconds. The spicy sweetness in her mouth mixed with the hot sweetness that erupted between her legs. Moriarty’s body and mind lurched.

And she toppled from the chair.

“Ugh!” she grunted.

“Boss?!” Seb’s voice was slurred, but her eyes were open. She rubbed her head. “You okay?”

“Mmm.” Moriarty popped up from a heap of red silk on the floor.

Seb lifted her head and looked around the room. “Aw,” she said. “You saved me the raspberry one!” She popped the misshapen chocolate in her mouth and grinned. “C’mere, my Sugar Plum Fairy.” Seb opened the sides of her suit wide. “Come to your Cavalier.”

Moriarty’s face lit up, like Christmas, and she launched herself into Seb’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have one more in me. But it'll probably be a Boxing Day edition.
> 
> For all those who celebrate it: MERRY CHRISTMAS! And for all the smucks like me who are working tomorrow: God Bless Us Every One!


	11. The Christmas Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well in our Christmas AU. Rating E. References to other chapters in this work. All the earlier pairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of every Christmas movie or TV show, there's usually a montage of the characters, happy, doing Christmasy things, all having learned the True Meaning of Christmas, with this song, "The Christmas Song" in the background. That's the point of this final chapter, wrapping everything up and tying a bow on it. 
> 
> To all the writers and readers and Tumblr folks who have inspired my stories this year:
> 
> Thank You and Happy New Year!

_**Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,** _

_**Jack Frost nipping at your nose**  _

* * *

“Finally! Wow! Sherlock, this is beautiful!”

John dropped their bags and ran around the room like, well, like a child on Christmas morning, though technically, it was afternoon.

The sitting area was complete with decorated tree and roaring fireplace. Cellophane-wrapped, ribbon-tied baskets and trays of nibbles and vases of winter flowers were positioned at strategic points around the room. Vines of greenery and red berries were wound around corners and draped along walls.

“It _almost_ makes getting our own Christmas stolen by the world’s only consulting criminal-Grinch and her dog Max worth it.”

“Almost,” agreed Sherlock.

“Three nights?”

“Yes.”

“You know we haven’t taken an actual holiday since [Paris](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1190226/chapters/2428395). Well, there was [that weekend in the country](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1710722), but your sister and Lestrade were there, so not quite the same. Don’t think you’ll be bored?”

“I’ve the rest of Lestrade’s cold cases, Bertillon's _Identification Anthropométrique,”_ she pointed with her lips to the wrapped box under the tree. “That’s if we deplete our...creativity.”

John wiggled her eyebrows and smirked. She leaned up to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock’s nose. “We have gotten a little more...adventurous...this holiday season. Loo.” John disappeared into the toilet. “Oh my God, Sherlock! There’s one of those spa baths that makes the bubbles! Heh, heh, heh. And the three of the most tempting words in the English language!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“COMPLIMENTARY CHAMPAGNE SERVICE! Bwah, ha, ha! How did you manage this? The owner must owe you a big favour!”

“Something like that.” Sherlock looked around the room and then gave a reluctant sigh. “Probably three.”

John shut the door.

Sherlock removed her mobile and then returned it to her coat pocket. Twice. The third time, she typed a message very quickly, hit ‘send’ and threw the mobile on the desk. She removed her coat and tossed it on top of the phone.

* * *

_**Yuletide carols being sung by a choir** _

_**And folks dressed up like eskimos.** _

* * *

**Well done. Three cases. Happy Christmas. SH**

Mycroft read the message twelve times. Then she threw her mobile in the drawer of the bedside table. She stroked the auburn head of hair that rested on her bare stomach and listened to soft snuffles. She retrieved her mobile and tapped.

**Likewise. Thank you. Happy Christmas. MH**

After all, Sherlock did aid in pinpointing the world’s only consulting criminal’s home address. That tiny piece of intel was worth a considerable amount in Mycroft’s world. And if she could facilitate a bit of respite for her sister and her companion in return, well...

Must make ophthalmology appointment. Her eyes were doing that thing. That thing they had done for the second time today.

_Earlier..._

Mycroft was removing her gloves when she stopped short in the foyer. She turned her head toward the sitting room and smiled at the Detective-Inspector-sized lump covered in a blanket on the sofa. The Christmas tree twinkled.

_Someone is waiting for me at home on Christmas._

Her mind parsed the words slowly.

_Someone is waiting...for me...at home...on Christmas._

She blinked. And if her eyes were suddenly fuzzy, it was surely the combined luminescence of the bright sun streaming through the window and the fairy lights. Nothing else.

_Someone is waiting for me at home on Christmas._

**_BROGGG-BROG-brogbrogbrog!_ **

_Someone who snores like a troll under a bridge._

Mycroft walked toward the fireplace, she put her gloves in her pocket, and began to unbutton her coat.

Home. Hearth. She would set a fire. Two hands snaked around her waist; ten fingers moved with hers.

“I like this part,” said Lestrade sleepily. “Removing your armour.”

“As do I.” Lestrade eased the coat from Mycroft’s shoulders and threw it over the arm of the sofa. She unbuttoned Mycroft’s waistcoat and slid it off. Mycroft unfastened her shirt cuffs. Lestrade moved around in front of her and began rolling the sleeves.

“How was your day?” asked Mycroft.

“You mean my day and night and part of another day? Horrid. Yours?”

“Same. Hungry?”

“STARVED!”

* * *

“I love mulled wine,” said Lestrade, ladling herself another cup from the pot on the stove. She sat on the counter, watching Mycroft fuss about the kitchen.

“Pheasant?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes, please.” Mycroft fed her a bit of meat.

“Mmm. More.” Mycroft obliged. Then Lestrade stuck a fork in a small potato and gnawed dramatically. She nodded to the chocolate Yule log. “That looks almost too pretty to eat. Almost.”

“My specialty,” said Mycroft with a bit—okay, a whole lot—of pride. Lestrade leaned over and dragged a finger along the chocolate edge. She held it to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft cleaned the digit with her tongue.

Lestrade brushed her lips to Mycroft’s. “What say we start with booze and dessert?” she whispered. “I’ll get the plates,” replied Mycroft, eyes darkening. “Who needs plates?” Lestrade licked her lips.

They drew the curtains and made a nest of blankets, pillow, and cushions at the base of the twinkling Christmas tree. They cut slices of cake and fed each other, licking fingers and thumbs and lips and, eventually, skin that served as plates. Mycroft rolled an iced grape down Lestrade’s naked torso to her delighted squeals; Mycroft followed the cold trail with her warm mouth.

“John was right!” giggled Lestrade.

“Let’s leave Dr. Watson out this, shall we?”

Lestrade giggled again and finished her wine. “Mycroft...upstairs?”

“Here.”

“Right under the Christmas tree. Naughty, naughty.” Lestrade shucked the rest of her clothes, except the necklace. She touched it. “Got a couple—more like a thousand—comments on my Christmas gift. People _do_ talk.”

“They do little else. Turn over,” said Mycroft. Lestrade rolled on her belly. Mycroft scooped up a slice of cake and set it on Lestrade’s lower back. She removed her clothes and crouched over her lover, eating and licking, to the sound of Lestrade’s groans. When Mycroft had licked her clean, Lestrade pushed to her knees, head down. Mycroft spread her lover’s thighs, lapping at her cunt as eagerly as she had the dessert.

“Mycroft, Mycroft, oh, oh, yes!”

Mycroft procured the dildo from the folds of the blankets. Then it was lubed, half in Mycroft. And then she sank the other half slowly into Lestrade.

“Oh, Christ, yes!” cried Lestrade. Mycroft pumped.

“You know, I’m off the rest of toda-a-a-y and tomorrow,” panted Lestrade. “Sleeping, eating, drinking...”

“Fucking,” they said in unison. Lestrade moaned.

Lestrade giggled. “That word from your lips sounds a thousand times more obscene than it is.”

“Fucking, fucking, fucking,” chanted Mycroft, grinning wickedly at her lover’s form, running a possessive hand up and down her back.

“Oh God, YES! MYCROFT!”

Lestrade buried her head in the pillow. Mycroft eased the dildo out of both them, and Lestrade fell over. Then she sat up and reached for Mycroft, pulling her closer and kissing her soundly.

“You taste like...Christmas,” said Mycroft, licking her lips.

Lestrade curled into Mycroft’s arms. “You feel like...home.”

* * *

_**Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe** _

_**Help to make the season bright.** _

* * *

“Are you ever going to wake up?” mumbled Sherlock impatiently. Crime scene photos were spread across the wide canopied bed.

“I ate a whole duck,” slurred John, one eye open. “Quack, quack.”

Sherlock arranged and rearranged the photos. Then she flipped through documents in the manila folder. “Just as I thought. Naturally. “ She put her hands behind her head and rested back on the pillows. “It was the butler that did it. How prosaic. Why couldn’t they see that twenty years ago?”

“I wonder what our evil counterparts are doing? Once they wake from their drugged stupor, of course. Cooking up their next diabolical plan?”

Sherlock shrugged and shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, but I hope it’s an eleven. _This_ ,” she said, scooping up the photos and sliding them back into the folder, “was a 2—at best.”

* * *

_**Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow** _

_**Will find it hard to sleep tonight.** _

* * *

“And...I win!” said Seb, scribbling numbers on a scrap of paper.

“That’s not a word,” said Moriarty. They sat on the bed, with the board and tiled letters between them.

“It is a word.” Seb grabbed the dictionary. “Wanna bet?”

“It is not a word," said Moriarty. "And I win, and you are going to make me coffee,” Seb made a face, “and I am going to drink it while you clean the flat! To my satisfaction!”

“It _is_ a word. And _I_ win. And you are going to clean the flat. In the antlers! To _my_ satisfaction!”

They shook hands.

Seb opened the dictionary and read triumphantly. “Aa. Hawaiian. A type of volcanic rock having a rough and jagged surface. I. WIN.”

Moriarty fumed.

* * *

“DONE!”

Moriarty stomped to the kitchen and threw the toilet brush and the antlers down on the floor. “I’m not doing anything else...”

Her words died at the first sniff.

Seb handed her a mug.

Moriarty smiled.

“Boss?” Seb approached her.

“Hmm?” Moriarty sipped the coffee and watched Seb twirl one of her dark curls around her fingers.

“Your boots need polishing.”

“They do, don’t they?”

Seb sank slowly and purposefully to the floor, never taking her eyes from her Master’s. “And these need a fresh coat.” She touched a lacquered toenail.

“Boots, first.”

* * *

Moriarty leaned down and rested her hand on Seb’s wrist.

“Rat King.”

Seb dropped the shoe brush immediately. She looked up with concern, but she didn’t see her Master, her lover, her employer, her flatmate.

She saw the girl who had given her the tiger tattoo.

Her friend.

“The difference between staying alive and living is you.”

Seb smiled. “And the difference between who I was supposed to be and who I am is you.”

Moriarty laced her fingers in Seb’s.

Moments later, they were on their sides, in bed, facing each other. Moriarty pulled the duvet over their heads and snuggled close to Seb. “Let’s stay here for a while,” she said. “Happy Christmas, Sebbie.”

“Happy Christmas, Boss.”

* * *

_**They know that Santa’s on his way** _

**_He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh_ **

* * *

“Good idea about the bottle of brandy for Mr. Hudson,” said John.

Sherlock twisted restlessly.

“Don’t move. They’ll smudge.” John fanned Sherlock’s toenails. She admired her handiwork. “They match your scarf.” She fanned some more. “Now that the whole drama with Mr. Chatterjee is over, I hope he can find someone to share it with in the New Year.”

“Might come sooner than that,” said Sherlock cryptically.

* * *

_**And ev'ry mother's child is gonna spy** _

_**To see if reindeer really know how to fly.** _

* * *

“Hudson!”

“Turner!”

“Uhhh...that brandy...was very fine...perhaps a little too fine...”

“I don’t know about you,” Mr. Hudson blustered, “but, I say, if a grown man can’t enjoy a pleasant...”

“...Christmas cuddle...,” supplied Mr. Turner.

“...with another grown man in the spirit of...uh...yuletide cheer...well, then what is this nation coming to?!”

“What did we fight...”

“...and win...,” added Mr. Hudson.

“...the War for?!”

“Precisely.”

“Happy Christmas, Captain!”

“Happy Christmas, Colonel!”

“Uhhh...Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Ever been to Ibiza?”

* * *

_**And so I'm offering this simple phrase** _

_**To kids from one to ninety-two** _

* * *

“I’ve! Been! A! Naughty! Girl! Santa!” panted Sherlock, bouncing on John’s lap. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

John locked eyes with her. Then they burst into giggles.

“Penge...,” said John between fits of laughter.

“...Bungalow,” finished Sherlock. She eased off of John and moved to the end of the sofa. John unfastened the harness of the strap-on and pulled it out of her trousers. She dropped the whole ensemble on the floor.

“That’s wasn’t...”

“No,” agreed Sherlock. “But it would’ve been very...”

“Seasonal,” conceded John. “I’m not much of a pervy Santa, Sherlock. Although, I _do_  like the skirt.” She fingered the red-and-green plaid that grazed Sherlock’s thighs.

“All things considered, probably for the best,” said Sherlock, smiling. “I like the spanking.”

“Perhaps later on, we’ll revisit the skirt and the spanking without the...”

“North Pole?” offered Sherlock, snorting lewdly.

John fell off the sofa, laughing.

* * *

“Now, _this_ , this is fantastic!” slurred John, setting the champagne flute on the edge of the tub behind Sherlock . Steam rose from the bubbling water. She returned to straddling Sherlock and rutting furiously. “Boil me like a bloody new potato, just don’t fucking stop!” John clung to Sherlock’s wet shoulders.

Sherlock’s hand snaked between them and rubbed her own clit. “Might be one of your Christmas miracles, John,” she said, her voice dissolving into a growl.

“What’s that?!”

“We might just...”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, you gorgeous beast!” John bit hard on Sherlock’s neck.

“...come together. AHHH!”

John pushed the damp hair from Sherlock’s brow and kissed her lips.

“Happy Christmas, Love.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

* * *

_**Although it's been said many times,** _

_**Many ways: "Merry Christmas to you."**  _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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